


Kaleidoscope

by angelinthecity



Series: Kaleidoscope [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Elio's POV, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual smut and fluff, Fix-It, Light Angst, M/M, Paris (City), Pining, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-08-29 05:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16738087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelinthecity/pseuds/angelinthecity
Summary: Elio accompanies his father to a Classics conference in Paris in early 1988, and runs into Oliver at the get-together cocktail event on the first evening.“I heard his laugh before I saw him. I hadn’t heard it in over four years, not since that final night in Bergamo, and even now it didn’t sound quite the same. The lightness of it was gone. Yet, it was similar enough that I recognized it immediately.”[Part 1 COMPLETED Jan 3, 2019]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Movie canon-based mostly, some book details too. 
> 
> I’ve worked on this for a while now and I’m so excited to finally start actually posting chapters. Weekly updates from now on.

**Paris, France**

**January 1988**

 

I heard his laugh before I saw him. I hadn’t heard it in over four years, not since that final night in Bergamo, and even now it didn’t sound quite the same. The lightness of it was gone. Yet, it was similar enough that I recognized it immediately.

I couldn’t claim I hadn’t considered the possibility. A Classics conference, boasting a plenary lecture on Heraclitus followed by an entire day of sessions with scholars expanding on less known interpretations on selected Fragments; of course he would be there. Not that I had been certain of it, but I had assessed the likelihood of it when my father had asked whether I would join him on his work trip to Paris.

The possibility of running into him had not tipped the scales in favor of attending, though; quite the contrary. Plunging back into those depths was not on my itinerary, but I had decided that I had let him, or the absence of him, dictate enough of my life by now. I didn’t need to add to the list of places I would avoid.

After he had left that August over four years ago, I had first kept roaming the places that had been imprinted as ours in my brain: that table in the piazza where we sat the first morning, the monument, Monet’s berm. I had sat where he had sat, run my fingers along the railings he had touched. Eventually I had realized doing so had only made everything around me scream his absence, and I had stopped going to any of them. Given them up, gone cold turkey. Started looking the other way when I had to pass any of them with friends or my parents.

But Paris; I couldn’t let him take away Paris from me, too.

 

 

My father and I had left Milan on a train at dawn that Sunday and arrived in Paris in the afternoon. We had made a brief stop at our hotel to dispose of our luggage and to allow my father the chance to change his travel sweater for a tweed jacket. They knew my father at the hotel, he always stayed there when he traveled to Paris for work, so _Professeur_ Perlman’s rooms were already waiting for us when we had gotten there.

I had waited for him in my room, opened the window, and listened to the street sounds of Paris that were so similar yet so different from the ones I constantly heard from my room in Milan. Heels clacking on sidewalks, children chattering, cars screeching to a halt in front of a crossing and pedestrians yelling at them in French instead of in Italian.

When my father had deemed himself presentable enough to meet his colleagues – to my eyes, nothing much had changed, save for the jacket – we had made our way to the casual cocktail event arranged on the eve of the conference. The official opening lecture was going take place on Monday morning but as per tradition, the attendees got together already on Sunday evening to meet old friends or get a head start on their networking.

In the foyer of the university, we encountered an efficient young woman behind the registration desk, her hair neatly gathered in a bun. Brusquely, she found my father’s registration information in her records and gave us two badges to signify our respective attendee statuses. His said ” _Speaker, Prof. Samuel Perlman_ ”, as he was to give a lecture later that week. Mine simply stated ” _Guest of Prof. Perlman_ ”.

When we stepped into the great hall, with our freshly pinned badges on our lapels, we saw people mingling with wine glasses and cocktail bites in their hands, the low murmur of conversation getting gradually louder as more people arrived and first glasses of wine turned into seconds.

The social circles were small in my father’s field and he knew more than half of the attendees. After making the rounds to say hello to the ones he liked the most, he settled around a cocktail table to talk with one of his oldest colleagues turned into an old friend, Professor Teyssier. I had also known him ever since I was a child, as he had visited us at the villa in the summers. That had been when he had still been well enough to travel; for a few years now he had stayed close to Paris only. This was a rare chance for my father and him to catch up.

After exchanging the typical pleasantries about families, their topics soon shifted to their respective research cases and thus, went mostly over my head. I tried my best to feign interest in the conversation out of politeness, but then I heard it.

A laugh. An Oliver laugh.

I looked over my shoulder and saw him and three or four other people standing fairly close to us, all of them listening to an animated gray-haired woman apparently telling a most amusing story. I turned away before he could see me, even though it would not have been likely as he was standing with his back to me.

However brief my glimpse had been, it had been enough to get a look at the back of his neck, peeking out above the collar of his gray suit jacket, skin paler in the middle of January than it had been that sun-drenched summer but still golden in tone. I couldn’t help but remember the way it had felt under my fingertips. And lips.

Warm skin, the short hairs at the nape of his neck slightly damp after he had been swimming, or gone for one of his runs.

I heard their little group scatter after a while, and perhaps he had turned around at that point, because I saw my father’s face light up.

”Oliver!” he exclaimed with a hearty laugh.

”Professor, oh my goodness, how good to see you!”

Oliver made his way to us and behind him trailed a woman in her late twenties, with light brown hair arranged in soft curls that were barely brushing her shoulders. Oliver went to shake my father’s hand but my father was having none of it, and instead, pulled him in for a big hug.

After my father let go of him, Oliver turned to me. A pleasant smile. No signs of any recollection of my lips traveling on his damp neck.

”Elio.”

”Oliver.”

We settled for shaking hands. It was just as well, since I wasn’t sure whether I had been able to let go, had I been given the chance to hold him.

”This is my wife, Helen.”

Well, at least that would have probably done it. It was as someone had dropped my heart in an ice bucket. A loud thump and an immediate freeze.

I obviously could have deduced that there was a high chance that he had brought someone with him to Paris, but I had hoped against hope, until the last confirming moment, that this woman would have been just a colleague.

My father settled for a mutually polite handshake with her.

”I stayed with Professor Perlman that summer in Italy when I was working on my book. And this is his son, Elio. He’s a musical prodigy,” Oliver introduced me to Helen.

I immediately wondered whether she knew how his laugh was supposed to really sound like. Or whether she had any idea that I did. She was wearing a ” _Guest of_ ” badge on her lapel as well and I hated having that – or anything – in common with her.

Outwardly we didn’t share much. She was much shorter than me and despite being slim, she had soft, round features and a good-natured air around her. She was dressed impeccably and very conservatively. If someone had been told that Oliver had been attracted to both her and me, me with my angled features and my restless body covered in loose sweaters, they surely would have found the claim laughable.

My father was naturally over the moon to meet his favorite summer student again, and didn’t want to let the chance to spend more time with him slip away.

”Elio and I are going to get dinner after this, would you like to join us?” he suggested.

I knew my father thought I had recovered from my heartbreak; I was sure he would have otherwise consulted with me first. He wasn’t entirely incorrect either. After all, I had dated other people since then. Oliver leaving had been something I had been forced to find closure for all on my own, with no help from the actual cause of my pain, but I had thought I had done a pretty good job. It was only natural to now feel jealous and think about the _what ifs_ , when you were suddenly presented with the life he chose over you, standing right in front of you. It didn’t really mean anything that my heart was pounding like church bells in my chest and that I simultaneously felt paralyzed and bursting out of my skin.

Oliver accepted the dinner invitation for the both of them.

”We would love to, thank you.”

 

 

We left the university get-together quite soon after. Oliver held the heavy main entrance door for Helen and my father as the two of them stepped out, pulling on their winter gloves. My father offered Helen his arm as support as they descended the granite steps to the street, and I heard them marvel at the weather that was uncharacteristically mild for a January. It felt like spring was right around the corner.

Oliver held the door for me, too, and when I passed him to follow my father and Helen out of the building, he laid his hand on my shoulder, thumb pressing firmly enough that I felt it through my wool jacket. I stopped and glanced at him, expecting him to say something. He didn’t, but the look in his eyes softened.

”Are you two coming?”

We heard my father calling for us at the bottom of the stairs. Oliver let go of my shoulder as well as of the door, and made us both hurry out to the street before the door slammed shut behind us.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Mr Perlman have dinner with Oliver and his wife, and the summer in Crema is bound to come up in the conversation sooner or later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely response to the first chapter. Based on it, I would like to say two things in case someone has been wondering: 
> 
> One: if you are afraid of any impending heartbreak, you can relax and just enjoy the ride. It will still be slow burn, and not puppies and sunshine right away (especially since Elio, despite not being seventeen anymore, still has a flare for the dramatic POV), but I couldn’t possibly hurt these boys permanently. 
> 
> Two: in these first two chapters we are still in the setting-the-scene phase, but the Elio-Oliver dynamic is always, always the most interesting thing to me whether I read or write, so that’s where the focus will very clearly be when we move forward in the story.

We walked past a couple of Italian restaurants that my father dismissed immediately as the food couldn’t have possibly been as good here as at home. The third place we happened upon was French and two-thirds full, which fact my father took as a good sign and the rest of us were hungry enough to concur.

It was prime dinner hour and the window spots were already taken, so when we requested a table for four, we were shown to the far end of the restaurant. I watched Oliver politely pull out the chair for his wife and help her out of her camel coat, before he sat down across from me.

My father wanted to order champagne to start, to celebrate this surprising, happy reunion. Helen noted that this was actually their first time having champagne in Paris despite having been here for a week already. They had chosen to take extra vacation days here before the conference.

”As a second honeymoon, maybe?” my father enquired with a good-natured wink.

”No, neither of us had been to Paris before, so we just wanted to take up on the opportunity,” Helen explained glancing at Oliver. She continued by listing places they had been to during the week; Galeries Lafayette, Panthéon, Arc de Triomphe, the Richelieu-Louvois library. It was easy to guess which were her places and which had been Oliver’s destinations.

”Musée d’Orsay is one of my favorites”, my father added as a further recommendation. ”They have wonderful Monets and Cézannes in there, and many of Degas’ best works as well.”

Oliver had been mostly quiet until now.

”And Elio, did you come here for the sights?”

I told him I had planned to take advantage of a series of matinee concerts during the week, performed by the students of the graduating class at the Paris Conservatory. My teacher in the Milan Conservatory had recommended them to me. Beyond those, I did not have a rigid schedule. I had planned on browsing in bookstores during the days, going to listen to my father give his lecture on Wednesday, and maybe participating in the conference’s social program with my father in the evenings.

”That sounds lovely,” Helen said and continued by asking me about my studies in Milan.

She was very nice to me and I wondered whether that type of socializing came naturally to her. In fleeting moments between conversation topics, it looked like she had to make a conscious effort: to come up with the next question, to play the part she was expected to, to try and make a good impression.

I also showed my most pleasant side towards her. I was always the nicest to people I was wary of or saw as my opponents. I wasn’t sure which of the two categories she belonged to.

 

 

We had talked about Paris extensively and it was inevitable that the discussion eventually drifted to Oliver’s summer in Crema.

”I have heard surprisingly few details from him, only that it was one of the best summers of his life,” Helen started, innocently like the only gazelle in a pack that didn’t know that it had just led them all into the hunting ground of lions.

I shifted in my seat. I wouldn’t dare say anything until I saw what tone this conversation would take.

I was also willing to bet by now that she did not know about me. Or Oliver. Oliver and me. Were we supposed to gloss it over and change the subject, or find euphemisms to the pleasures of those glorious weeks?

”We thoroughly enjoyed having him stay with us, and to this day, he’s been our favorite summer guest,” my father said.

”Oh, thank you, Professor. Surely you are being too kind to me and too harsh on the others, but I’ll take it,” Oliver said, maintaining a steady voice.

We had not spoken since that phone call four years ago when he announced his plans to get married in the spring. They had obviously followed through on those plans: the ring catching light on Helen’s finger, now wrapped around the stem of her champagne glass, was my constant reminder of it.

We had exchanged a few letters after that, but time between them had stretched longer and longer until we had eventually stopped altogether. I couldn’t even remember who had sent the last one.

No, that wasn’t true. I knew Oliver had sent the last one.

My wound had always started to heal during the silences between letters, but whenever one arrived, it had torn the scab right off. There came a time when I could not repeat the cycle anymore, so I hadn’t replied to his latest one. In it, he had briefly mentioned the stress involved in arranging a wedding, as if I had wanted to hear that. He had made his bed and abandoned ours, now let him lie in it, I had thought.

”I felt so welcome and learned so much during my time in Italy. And obviously Mafalda’s cooking was out of this world. Is she still with you?” My father nodded. ”I’ve never had tortellini that would have matched hers. And her apricot juice was the most refreshing I’ve ever tasted. I remember her always bringing some out to the garden whenever we took a break.”

”It was the hottest summer of the decade,” my father noted. ”We could only work on the cataloging during the mornings, and afternoons would have to be spent inside, hiding from the scorching sun. Right, Oliver?”

I was only thinking of the afternoons spent napping in Oliver’s arms in his room. My room.

”Yes, absolutely.”

A blotch of redness appeared on the side of Oliver’s neck after he confirmed my father’s statement and I knew he was thinking of, if not the same as me, then at least some variation of it. It was the first sign that he even remembered that I had been anything else than a boy whose room he had taken over for six weeks.

This was turning out to be one of the most awkward dinners I had ever attended. That list included the time Lucia’s parents had caught us half-naked in her bedroom and made us come eat dinner downstairs with them and her disapproving grandmother even though our mouths would have much rather been busier elsewhere. Or the time I had gone to pick up Fausto for our date last fall and overheard his parents discussing divorce. All evening I had had to pretend that I had no idea that unbeknownst to him his family would soon come crashing down.

Oliver did not know about either Lucia or Fausto, or any of the others, for that matter. Not that he would have even cared. He had Helen now.

The red blotch on his neck did not grow, it disappeared. I was disappointed.

My father and Oliver continued by discussing the conference program, and Helen and I mostly listened. The earlier conversation had left me feeling insignificant and I was desperate for any recognition of us. I could have easily asked; why didn’t you tell her how hot your skin was against mine that summer, Oliver? When you had been laying out in the sun and came to wake me up from my sunlounger, only to drag me upstairs, where you could do things to me that you couldn’t out in the open?

I was of course decent enough not to do that but I liked imagining his face if I had. Or her face. She would have probably been hurt and horrified but would have tried to avoid making a scene. I almost felt bad about my thoughts; she had been nothing but kind to me.

The rest of the evening went by similarly, me being unable to hate Helen because she was the epitome of pleasant, and yet hoping for any sign that this wasn’t just a dinner between old acquaintances. That Oliver was just as torn as I was.

 

 

After coffee, Helen excused herself to visit the powder room before we left, and my father developed an urgent need for a smoke. He went to settle our check at the counter and said he’d wait for the rest of us outside.

Oliver and I were left at the table alone.

We didn’t have long, Helen could return at any moment, and Oliver had already wasted a lot of time by insisting back and forth with my father about absolutely wanting to pick up the check: couldn’t possibly accept his generosity, the least he could do after being taken care of for six weeks – the usual.

After my father was finally gone, I looked at Oliver and he avoided looking at me, so I had to make the first move.

”So you came to Paris.”

_Say you were hoping I’d be here. You’d obviously seen my father’s name on the list of speakers._

”I did. We did.”

”It’s good to see you.”

_Say you miss me. Even if it’s a lie._

”Yes. I’m glad Helen got a chance to meet you both.” He finally looked up.

Did he really have to bring her up every chance he got? Did he not know she was all I had thought about all evening anyway, like the sharp, insistent pebble in your shoe that stops you from enjoying any of your steps when you’re just trying to go forward? Did he think that now that it was just the two of us, I would forget her existence the moment she was out of sight? Or was he worried that he might?

Helen returned now, with a freshly applied layer of lipstick and stray hairs slightly more in place. I hadn’t heard her footsteps and wasn’t sure how long she had been standing there.

”I’m ready, dear.” That was the first time I had heard either of them using any terms of endearment.

”Yes, let’s go. Professor Perlman is waiting for us outside. He was very kind and already paid for our dinner.”

We gathered outside where my father finished his cigarette the moment he caught sight of us.

 

 

It turned out Oliver and Helen’s hotel was on the next block from ours and thus, we had the same walk back to the 1st _arrondissement_. Paris sidewalks were narrow and didn’t allow us to spread out, but I was happy to walk alone behind the others. Helen held on to Oliver’s arm; yet another thing that she hadn’t done until then. Maybe she felt less steady walking in her heels now that it was dark and she had been drinking the champagne. I wanted to give her the benefit of doubt.

The hotel that I and my father were staying at was the one we reached first, and so it was time to exchange goodnights and goodbyes. _It was great meeting you; yes I hope we get to see each other again; which sessions will you be attending at the conference tomorrow; I was planning for the early morning one; maybe I’ll see you there._ Everyone shook hands. It felt weird to have two layers of leather from our gloves between Oliver’s palm and mine. _Goodnight, this was lovely_.

Oliver and Helen crossed over to the other side of the street, not knowing that their reflections remained visible on the glass of the doors of our hotel. And so as my father and I walked up the scarlet-carpeted stairs to the entrance, I saw Oliver’s reflection still standing there on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, looking in our direction and only moving along after Helen’s reflection tugged on his arm.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite how it may look like at this point, everything that I said in the notes at the beginning of the chapter still holds. You will see what I mean if you hang on till the next update, coming up early next week :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of a quiet morning, Elio gets company.

The next morning, my father and I had agreed to meet for breakfast at the small café on the corner at nine o’clock. He sometimes liked to get up early to read and sometimes preferred to sleep in, and we had gotten separate hotel rooms so that we could both adjust our mornings as we pleased. After the evening we had had, I hadn’t gotten much sleep and had woken up before my alarm, so I decided to head to the café ahead of time. I took a book with me to keep me company; I was in the middle of my re-reading of Proust. I had found the first volumes of _In Search of Lost Time_ an appropriate accompaniment for this trip.

The sun was barely above the horizon yet and it painted the picturesque Parisian buildings in its cool-toned light. There was no snow, but the sidewalk had an icy, white-gray hue fitting for a January morning. It was still relatively quiet out and when I crossed briskly over to the other side of the street, I didn’t have to pay any attention to cars; there were none of those around yet.

The name of the café, Café Kaléidoscope, was written in yellow cursive in the neon sign above the entrance. A bell tethered to the handle chimed when I pulled the door open, and as soon as stepped inside, I saw him. Not my father, but Oliver.

He sat alone by the window, a cup of coffee in hand and a stack of papers in front of him. His hair was neatly combed flat and his hand quickly rose to flatten it further when he saw me. I remained standing in the doorway because after last night, I wasn’t sure whether he had any interest in my company. That was soon made clear, when he borrowed a chair from the empty table next to him and waved for me to come and join him. I did.

”Good morning.”

”Good morning, Elio. Please, sit down.”

Oliver looked freshly showered, his hair still slightly damp. The jacket he was wearing over his crisp button-down was clean and appropriate for a day of scholarly debates, but it had definitely seen more than one conference before this one. Based on my impressions of my father’s colleagues, he would fit right in.

Despite the early morning and thus sparse clientele, the waiters weren’t in too much of a hurry to come and get my order, so Oliver and I had time to make good headway in our small talk.

”My father should be coming here too, we agreed to meet here at nine,” I said, as if I had to defend myself for showing up alone. Like I had to convince him I hadn’t concocted a plan to come and see him by myself.

”Helen left this morning,” Oliver blurted out. ”I mean, she was supposed to leave. There wouldn’t be anything for her to do during the conference. I just saw her off in a cab to the airport. She’s flying home to Boston.”

That was a lot to process for someone who had been mentally preparing for a week during which he could run into the love of Oliver’s life at any moment.

I nodded, because there wasn’t really much to add to that.

”I hope she enjoyed Paris.”

”I think she did like the city. I think we got what we wanted out of last week.”

The waiter came over now, offering me a chance to gather my thoughts. No matter what memories might have been playing in my mind, the reality was that this was just an accidental meeting over coffee. There was nothing between us but a short affair, buried five summers ago.

I ordered my cappuccino.

”So how have you been, Elio?”

”I’m good, my studies have kept me busy.”

”Yes, that’s what you said last night. But…how are things? How are you?”

”I’m fine. And you?”

”Oh, I’m good. But I mean, everything’s…good, with you too?”

”You mean whether I’m still thinking about that summer?” I prodded, thinking we would otherwise waffle around this for who knows how long.

Silence from Oliver, which probably meant yes. Or maybe he had genuinely just meant to ask how I was in general, and I had taken it too far and he didn’t have the heart to tell me it was the last thing on his mind. But now that we were already here, I might as well cut to the chase.

”You hadn’t told much about that summer to Helen.”

He sighed. ”No. After I got back home, I didn’t see her for a while and then later on it didn’t seem…necessary anymore.”

The rays of the low morning sun got caught on the steel band of Oliver’s watch and created constellations on the table. I quietly observed them and knew that I had to at least ask.

”Did you come here because you knew my father would be here?”

”Would it matter?”

”Did you hope that I would be here, too?”

”That would have been quite of a long shot, wouldn’t it?”

”But I’m here now.”

”Yes. Yes you are.” He took a deep breath and smiled into his coffee. I also took a sip of mine.

 

 

My father announced his arrival with the warm greeting he always extended to Oliver. I wished I could have been as transparent, similarly say how happy I was to see him, how his being here surely made the upcoming week even better. Instead, I had to keep up the facade of not caring one way or the other.

I had thought I wouldn’t. Care, that is. I had moved on and dated others, mostly boys, some girls, found things to like about them, things to want, things to love. I had boldly thought that I could safely come here, even with the threat of running into him hanging over me. And yet, the moment I heard him laughing last night, I had slipped. Would I be any wiser this time, knowing what inevitably waited for me at the other end if I wasn’t careful?

My father asked about Helen and Oliver explained the same to him as he had to me. After my father’s coffee had arrived, he soon realized what time it already was and deduced that he and Oliver needed to head to the university or they would risk missing the opening lecture. He downed the rest of his drink quickly, cursing its temperature when it burned his tongue, and we left.

 

 

The streets had gotten busier by now. I walked with them over the Seine to the left bank and Oliver was taken with the gilded fames shining in the distance, on top of the pillars on Pont Alexandre III. I told him that the four statues on the bridge represented the arts, sciences, and depending on who you asked, combat and war or commerce and industry.

”No matter what they represent, they look like glowing crown jewels up there, ablaze with the sun,” he mused.

My father agreed and told him not to be fooled by the ancient-looking light gray exterior of the bridge; it had a modern steel structure underneath.

In the metro, Oliver mentioned he would be going to the symphony orchestra concert that was arranged in conjunction with the conference that evening. He asked whether we were planning to attend. My father and I hadn’t signed up for any of the conference’s social events beforehand, and had rather left it up to how we would feel each night.

”We haven’t really decided yet, what do you think, Elio?”

I thought about asking what they were going to play, but quickly realized it didn’t really matter if it meant I could spend more time with Oliver.

”Yes, we could go, it could be nice,” I said.

”Another concert right after your student matinee wouldn’t be too much?”

I wasn’t sure if Oliver was just making conversation or trying to talk me out of coming. I explained that the concert series at the Conservatory wouldn’t start until Tuesday, and all I had planned for today was just visits to some of my old favorite places in the city.

 

 

After we emerged from underground and arrived at the university, my father checked with the registration desk about the availability of tickets for the symphony orchestra concert. The efficiency of the previous evening was gone, and there was a different, older lady taking care of the desk this morning. She was certain that there were a couple of tickets left, but she took her time trying to find them in her drawers and Oliver and my father had to leave for their lecture.

They left me standing by the desk, my father with a tousle of my hair as if I hadn’t been a day older than twelve, and Oliver with a smile and a nod.

”Hopefully I’ll see you tonight, then.”

He sounded sincere.

 

 

After the lady had finally located two tickets for me, I left the university and spent my day wandering in bookshops and had lunch in a bistro on the Île de la Cité. Paris was always full of people but here I somehow found them more manageable than around the Opéra, or Champ de Mars with the endless lines of tourists snaking towards the Eiffel Tower. I didn’t count myself among them. We had never lived here but visited so often that I considered the city my own. I knew the quiet alleys and hidden gardens that provided serenity if desired, but today I wanted to be among people. If not for anything else, then at least to remind myself that there was a sea of them anywhere I looked; I would not have to cling only to the one who had back in the day seen into my very soul.

Even so, from time to time I patted my breast pocket just to check that the symphony tickets were still there.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Mr Perlman attend the symphony orchestra concert with Oliver.

The symphony orchestra concert ended up being sold out that evening; I may have managed to get one of the last pairs of tickets. With all those people lining up for the coat check in the congested foyer of the concert hall, it would have been impossible for my father and I to find Oliver had he not been as tall as he was. But there he was, standing near the entrance to the auditorium, his head of golden blond hair towering over most people. When he spotted us in the crowd, he lifted his chin in recognition and his mouth curved into a delighted – and a little relieved – smile.

The people in front of us moved excruciatingly slowly and when we finally managed to get to Oliver, he was leaning against the wall beside the entrance in a white shirt and a dark suit.

He looked dashing and I suddenly realized I had never seen him in a suit before. It was still Oliver, I reminded myself, but the suit lent him an air of authority that momentarily left me speechless and I was glad my father was there to take care of the conversation. Self-conscious, I tugged on the lapels of my own jacket. It was still a little loose as my skinny body had shown no signs of widening into it, contrary to what my mother had assumed when she had bought the jacket for me years ago.

It had taken us so long to weave through the crowds that there was barely any time left now and we had to head for our seats. My father led the way and Oliver and I took seats on either side of him. It was just as well, I didn’t need any of the distractions that sitting too close to Oliver would have created.

 

 

At intermission, my father wanted to stretch his legs and headed back to the foyer to mingle with his colleagues, most likely over glasses of sherry. Oliver and I did not feel like braving the crowds and settled for stretching in our seats. Other people scattered from around us, too, leaving us to be the only ones in our row.

Oliver leaned back in his chair and his jacket fell further open. ”So how’s everyone? Marzia?”

”She’s doing fine, she’s studying in Bologna now.” I wondered if I should tell him more. ”We dated for a while last year, when she came back home for the summer.”

”Oh.” When I couldn’t read into his reaction I realized I had wanted to see at least some jealousy.

”Like during the summer back then?” he asked.

”Sort of. Not really. No distractions this time.” It was unnecessarily cruel of me to call him merely a distraction, and I instantly wanted to take it back. ”I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

He glanced away but added gently: ”It’s okay.”

”But it wasn’t really anything that was meant to survive come fall,” I shrugged. ”This was our final attempt anyway. I mean, ever since we were kids, people expected us to be something; together. My friends would tell me already in playgrounds that she liked me because she was meaner to me than to other children. But we are now old enough to know that we are meant to be friends only.”

It was awkward to try to talk seriously over the empty seat, so Oliver patted the velvety green, slightly worn cushion between us to encourage me to move closer. The seat was still warm after my father, and I didn’t know whether to use the armrest between us or let Oliver have it. I folded my hands in my lap.

We exchanged our opinions and remarks on the first half of the concert and then Oliver circled back to our earlier subject.

”Your father said that you were dating someone called Franco now.”

”Fausto,” I corrected. ”He did?”

It surprised me that my father would have done that and it made me wonder what else he had discussed with Oliver.

”He also said that he didn’t think it was serious. I’m not sure if he should’ve told me that,” Oliver said apprehensively.

”Probably not, considering he was wrong,” I said, picking lint from the seat cushion.

”Oh.”

”I mean, we’re not dating anymore.”

”Oh?”

Oliver had mastered the one-syllable reaction that conveyed a completely different emotion each time.

I explained that Fausto was one of my good classmates in the Milan Conservatory and that we used to hang out. ”Help each other out in translations and…other things. But we’re not doing that anymore, Fausto found an actual boyfriend for himself.”

”I bet there hasn’t been a shortage of new candidates, though, eager to try their luck with the star student,” he teased, suddenly looking more relaxed.

I didn’t know what to say. My father had bragged about my academic accomplishments over dinner last night; it had been futile to try and stop him. This was one of the perks he got for paying for my studies, he always said. And yes, there had been people asking me out after – and also during – the time Fausto and I had been involved, but they mostly just wanted to be associated with me without bothering to get to know the real me first, and I found that frustrating.

My silence was telling and it delighted Oliver. ”Oh my God, I was right, you’re not even trying to deny it! Look at you, Elio Perlman, the catch of the campus!”

I insisted that I wasn’t taking up on any of the offers, but somehow he roared even louder at that, with laughter that was starting to have echoes of the way it used to sound like.

”Stop it,” I said and nudged him with my elbow but couldn’t fight back my own smile. His happiness, even though I wasn’t quite sure of what was causing it, was infectious and those laugh lines in the corners of his eyes so familiar to me.

I secretly also liked that he would now know that I was sought after. I was doing fine in Milan, I wasn’t sitting around alone, pining for him.

His teasing took a more serious tone, when he said he hoped I would eventually take a chance on someone and let them see everything that was inside me. I glanced at him. _Yes, Oliver, I did that once and look how that turned out._

I didn’t say it out loud but he must have read my mind, because he smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

 

 

The bell rang to signify the start of the second half of the concert and my father arrived in the nick of time. I didn’t have time to switch to my original seat, so I remained sitting next to Oliver. It was usually easy for me to lose myself in the music at concerts, but now I was painfully aware of his proximity. I tried to train my eyes on the stage and the conductor, because whenever I looked down, I would see Oliver’s knee next to mine and had to fight the urge to slide mine closer to it. Not so close that they would touch and he would notice; just closer.

 

 

My father suggested a night cap in the corner bar after the concert, and Oliver was more than happy to agree. They hadn’t had a chance to talk after the conference today, and he very much wanted to hear what my father had thought about the afternoon session on the conflicting interpretations of the Fragment B4. We weaved in between the people noisily huddled in the doorway of the bar and managed to find inside a table with two mismatched yet available chairs; I grabbed a third one for myself nearby.

”Despite what Dr Schuster argued today, I would like to point out that a great deal of my happiness does come from the pleasures of the body,” Oliver said and raised his glass of cognac before lifting it to his lips.

It made both him and my father laugh and I had no idea what it was referring to, but liked seeing them both happy.

Here they were, the two most influential men of my life in animated discussion. The boisterous, bohemian atmosphere in the tables surrounding ours, and the bartenders in white shirts and black vests behind the mahogany bar, reminded me of what it must have been like when the great novelists had debated in Parisian bars like this sixty years ago.

It was loud and thus difficult to hear what anyone was saying, so we had to hunch over the table and occasionally squeeze even closer to each other to allow waiters and other patrons to pass behind us. The warmth of the cabernet sauvignon I was drinking swam beautifully down my veins, and I equally drank in every look Oliver gave my way every now and then. I knew he only did it to prevent me from feeling left out when I couldn’t follow what they were saying, but I reveled in those moments all the same.

Oliver had taken off his jacket and the sleeve of his white shirt had ridden up enough to reveal his watch and above it, a sliver of skin on his furry wrist. The cigar smoke wafting in the air of the bar mixed with his cologne and for the first time today, I was close enough to smell it: jasmine, pine. I would have only needed to move an inch and my forearm would have touched his on the table. However, I knew doing so would not have satisfied me more than a single drop would have contributed to filling an empty bucket, so I didn’t.

I didn’t know if I had had any specific plans for this evening, but it had definitely not gone according to any of them. It was becoming clear to me that I was now just as hopelessly drawn to him as I had been all those years ago. The only difference was that whereas I had been uncertain back then whether he would reciprocate my feelings, now it was fully clear that nothing would happen between us. That ring on his finger would make sure of it. I would have to battle my feelings for a week and then watch him leave again.

I was jolted from my thoughts by Oliver bumping his shoulder on mine.

”Hey, you still with us?”

”Umm, yeah, yeah,” I nodded.

”Good,” he smiled and patted my thigh under the table, leaving his hand there for just a smidgen of a second longer than he would have needed to.

I recreated that scene later that night alone in my hotel bed, eyes closed, and in my version, there were no other people, and his hand did the opposite of letting my thigh go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heraclitus fragment B4: _”If happiness consisted in the pleasures of the body, we should call oxen happy whenever they come across bitter vetch to eat.”_
> 
> More in a few days :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio goes to Café Kaléidoscope hoping Oliver would show up for breakfast again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for being here, whether you are simply reading or also leaving those wonderful comments. I love writing this, but you all make it even better.
> 
> I know this is slow burn still, but we are building towards something lovely, trust me.

The next morning, I was at Café Kaléidoscope at quarter to nine. We hadn’t made any plans but I was hoping Oliver would show up again at the same time as the previous morning. I sat down at the same table as the day before and watched people come in.

There were a couple of false starts: a tall man in a trench coat, face hidden inside a thick gray scarf, as it was a much colder morning. But when he turned around, he was a good decade older and his hair had none of Oliver’s golden hue.

Save for the neatly combed hair, the next man didn’t look remotely like him and he was wearing a sheepskin jacket, but I hoped anyway that maybe my eyes were deceiving me and maybe Oliver had brought two coats to Paris with him.

A minute before nine, in walked a trench coat in the specific shade of café au lait that was more milk than coffee and inside that coat, Oliver.

When he looked around, it was not in search of a table but in search of faces. I gave him a small wave and his lips curved into a smile when he saw me. He made his way to my table, pulled out a chair and let his briefcase drop on the floor.

”Good morning. Should I admit right away that I was hoping you’d be here?”

Hearing him say that made me happy and I shrugged bashfully. ”Likewise.”

”I had a really good time last night.”

”I’ve missed talking to you.”

He nodded. ”We always had that.”

Today, the café was bustling with people coming in, but most of them took their coffee by the counter and headed out, so the seating area remained relatively peaceful. Still, our conversation was accompanied by a steady ambience of porcelain cups clinking against their saucers and the cash register ringing and clacking shut.

”To add to my list of confessions, I have to say I’m relieved. I wasn’t sure if we would be able to do…this,” he gestured between us. ”If you would want to, anymore, that is.”

_I would spend the rest of my days talking to you, Oliver._

”Of course,” I assured him, and we exchanged a small smile that encompassed so much of what neither of us was able to say out loud.

We had covered my gap years the night before, so I steeled myself to ask about his.

”How long have you been married?”

”Two years.”

I made the quick calculation in my head. ”But that’s…not what you...”

”I know. We planned to get married that spring, but we had to delay it until the next year.”

I wondered if there had been a specific reason but before I could decide whether it was appropriate to ask, he continued: ”I have to say though, marriage is not always what it’s cracked up to be. Or, I don’t know, maybe it is exactly that; I guess it depends on who you have been talking to.”

I figured they would have come up by now, but still asked if he had kids.

He shook his head. ”No.” It didn’t seem like he was specifically happy or sad about it, it was just a fact.

I wanted to ask if he was happy, but that suddenly seemed like an intimate question and still remembering the distance he had kept me at the first evening, I didn’t want to push too much and scare him back to that. We were still on thin ice, hoping neither of us poked it too sharply lest we would both fall through the cracks.

 

 

As our coffees arrived, Oliver wondered about the vivid azure blue and periwinkle butterfly motifs on the cups and in the paintings on the walls of the café. I told him that a group of butterflies was called a kaleidoscope, like the name of the café. A kaleidoscope of butterflies.

”Of course you would know that,” he said with a grin.

”I guess it makes sense,” I said. ”Every little individual turn of a colorful wing shifts your view on them as a collective, like in a kaleidoscope.”

”You know, the word was formed based on Ancient Greek. _Kaleo_ means beautiful, _eidos_ means forms, and _skopeo_ is look.”

This felt like a _déjà vu_. ”And of course you would know _that_ ,” I smiled.

”So basically, it means beautiful forms to look at,” he translated as his gaze traveled all over my face, fleetingly over my lips, but finally settling for my eyes.

I blushed against my will. A little overwhelmed, I also wondered where my father was. Why was he so late this morning?

 

 

We had gotten croissants to accompany our coffees, and Oliver spread apricot jam on top of his in a deliberately slow manner, like he needed something to do with his hands.

”The reason why we postponed the wedding was that two weeks before the day, my father died.”

My heart dropped. ”I’m so sorry.”

”Yeah, thank you. It was very sudden.”

”What happened?”

”Heart attack. He had had orders from his doctor to change his diet and what not, but he wasn’t someone you could tell what to do. He told other people what to do. Anyway, we decided to postpone the wedding till the next year as my mother was in no state to take part in any celebrations.”

”You never told me.”

”I couldn’t. You never wrote me again,” he reminded me.

”I know. Sorry.” I contemplated whether I should explain why, but figured he must have known anyway. ”How’s your mother now?”

”She’s okay, and I hate to say this, but maybe even better than during the last years of his life. She now has his money but none of the restrictions that came with being his wife.”

My true concern wasn’t his mother. Based on the few things I knew about his father, I knew that he and Oliver had not always seen eye to eye, but still, he had been his father. ”And how are you?”

Oliver chose his words carefully. ”My father and I…we had a respectful relationship, I guess, but we were not very close. In a certain way, both my mother and I have had a new lease on life afterwards. He was a strong figure in our family.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I placed my hand gently on top of his.

Oliver filled the silence, but didn’t pull his hand away. ”It’s funny how one thing can change so much. Kind of like in a kaleidoscope. When something makes you shift the viewing angle, you end up changing the whole picture.”

 

 

My father arrived at nine forty-five, claiming he had overslept. Yet, he had had time to trim his beard and did not look like his clothes had been chosen haphazardly. If I had to estimate, he looked even more put together than usual. But his lateness meant that he only had time to take his coffee by the counter and that instead of walking, he and Oliver had to hurry to the nearest metro station to get to the conference.

 

 

I, on the other hand, had time for a leisurely stroll on my way to the Conservatory, where the student matinee series was to begin that afternoon. As I crossed Place de la Concorde and continued walking along the river bank, my thoughts were scattered but always came back to our breakfast.

I knew how subtly our easy companionship had previously turned into something else, bouyed by seemingly innocent looks, touches. But back then I had thought he was unattached. And we had had six weeks, of which we had squandered four. Or had it really even been squandering? Even if we hadn’t known it about each other, hadn’t we  _wanted_ just as much at the breakfast table during those early weeks as in bed later? Nevertheless, instead of six weeks, I now had only six days with him. And today was already the third.

 

 

I arrived early at the Paris Conservatory on purpose, as I had a mission to accomplish before the concert. I found my destination, the faculty floor, without problems, but was told that the person I was looking for was already preparing his students for the matinee. My best bet would be to find him in the auditorium after the concert.

Hence, I found myself a place in the student cafeteria and spent time with my Proust until it was showtime and they started to let the audience in.

I thought I spotted him in the front row, and made a mental note of the seat he occupied. But when everyone stormed to the front of the auditorium after the concert – most of them must have been friends or family of the performers, I was in the minority as an outsider – I lost sight of him and after a few moments of fruitlessly looking around, accepted that I would simply have to try again tomorrow.

 

 

I browsed in bookstores for the rest of the day and had agreed to meet my father and his old friend Professor Teyssier for dinner that evening. They had had a productive day at the conference and thus, were in high spirits. My father was scheduled to give his lecture the next day, and they had gone over it together before dinner with Professor Teyssier giving him notes.

I wanted to ask them about Oliver and whether they knew where he was that evening, but couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse and probably wouldn’t have gotten a word in edgewise anyway in their conversation.

When we were walking back to the hotel afterwards, my father suddenly remembered something.

”Ah, Elio, I almost forgot. The Speakers’ Dinner will be held tomorrow evening and unfortunately I can’t bring any guests.”

I didn’t think it was a big deal, I had spent plenty of time in Paris alone over the years and would be able to keep myself company.

”That’s okay, I’m sure I can think of things to do. I’ll find somewhere to eat,” I assured him.

”Well, in fact, I spoke of it with Oliver today and he said he could take you to dinner if you’d like.”

”Wha…whaaat? Did you ask him to?” I was mortified that he had pressured Oliver into spending time with me like I was a child that needed babysitting. ”I could have taken care of myself.”

”No, I mentioned the Speakers’ outing and he suggested it himself. Unless you already had planned something else?”

Obviously I hadn’t, but I wasn’t sure what to think. Was this just a dinner? Did he specifically want to spend time with me? Time alone with me? Then again, we wouldn’t really be alone – we would be in a restaurant with dozens of other people. It’s not like there would be any risk of anything happening. Not that there would have been any risk of anything even if we were alone. What was I even thinking? Just because I was having a hard time pushing back my memories didn’t mean it was the same for him. He was probably just being nice.

”You seem to get along well enough, right?” my father asked.

I didn’t want to go into detail about where Oliver and I stood after this morning, and I wasn’t sure I even knew that myself. ”Yes, dad, I’m enjoying being with him. It wasn’t easy at first, but…”

”When his wife was here?” he said sympathetically.

”Yes.”

We walked a bit further in silence.

”I think he still feels the connection with you. It’s something separate that hasn’t been affected by his marriage,” my father then said.

I didn’t understand. ”How would it be possible for him to have that with us both?” For me, there had been nothing that had come even close to the profoundness of my feelings for him.

”It is possible to have more than one special person in the course of your life. There are different corners in your heart, for housing different people and different feelings.”

I still wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. I also wondered if he had talked with Oliver about that or come to the conclusion on his own.

”Anyway, if you’d rather not go, it’s fine. You can talk to him about it at my lecture tomorrow. He said he’ll be there.”

”No, no. I’ll go,” I said hastily, before neither my father nor the universe could take back the offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My edits for the rest of the story are pretty much all done, so you can expect more frequent updates from now on :) Next one still before the weekend!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr Perlman gives his lecture at the conference, but all Elio can think about is the upcoming evening.

Cappuccinos at nine at Café Kaléidoscope seemed to be the morning routine for the three of us already. On Wednesday, my father was prepared and on time for once, as he was going to give his talk at the conference later that morning. We headed to the café together; he had his notes in his briefcase and I helped carry his slide boxes.

Despite the scale of the esteemed conference, he was not nervous about his lecture, quite the contrary. He was always excited to talk about his work and couldn’t have gotten to the university fast enough. Therefore, when we found Oliver in the corner table – our usual table was occupied by a young woman – my father suggested that we make our coffee stop quick and head for the lecture hall as soon as we can.

”The only thing I’m not sure about is how the more controversial findings from Perugia will be received,” he pondered to Oliver who had asked how he was feeling ahead of the talk. ”I know that there are certain people who are not going to be open to my interpretations.”

”But based on what you’ve told me, you have perfectly good evidence to back all of those up,” Oliver argued. ”And isn’t it the whole point of research, to explore new possibilities, instead of being stuck to old patterns of thought? I will definitely chip in with my two cents on that if that’s where the discussion heads today.”

My father was pleased by Oliver’s enthusiasm, even though I had no doubt that he could also hold his own in defending his new hypotheses.

 

 

Guests were technically not allowed to attend the lectures, but my father smuggled me in to the auditorium as his assistant. I helped him set up his slides on the projector on the stage before retreating to sit on the front row, next to Oliver.

I figured I had to talk to him about the evening at some point and hesitantly brought it up.

”So. I heard you had agreed to keep me company this evening,” I said, fidgeting in my seat.

”Yes. Do you mind?” he added, eyes flashing with worry.

I shook my head. The fact that he would worry that I wouldn’t want to spend time with him seemed unfathomable. ”No, that was very nice of you. I just hope I didn’t interfere with whatever your plans were for tonight.”

”I didn’t have any plans. I do now, though. I was thinking we could have dinner at this place I heard about from one of my French colleagues. It’s on one of the side streets east of the Elysée palace.”

I liked that he had already given it thought. I also wondered how far his plans extended. Just a quick dinner and then back to our respective hotels after he had fulfilled his caretaker duties?

Since he had already contributed to our plans, I wanted to add my suggestion. ”Okay. If that’s the direction we’ll be going, then why don’t we meet at the Grille du Coq fountain. It’s in the park behind the Elysée palace.”

”Coq?” he repeated, amused by the double entendre. ”Really?”

”It’s an easy meeting place to find.”

He laughed. ”And that’s the only reason why you chose it?”

I made a show of rolling my eyes and unsuccessfully tried to fight back a smile. ”Don’t be a child. It’s named after the gate to the palace that has a rooster on top.”

”Whatever you say…” he said and raised his palms in mock surrender.

”Good morning. Everything set up for Samuel’s talk?”

We were interrupted by Professor Teyssier arriving to the auditorium. He was panting after having climbed the stairs up to the second floor with his bad leg. We had saved him a seat next to me and I helped him settle into it. I barely had time to assure him that everything was in order, when the chairwoman of the session called for silence in the audience. She began the day’s program and introduced my father, listing his career highpoints thus far, and then the floor was his.

 

 

I was happy and proud to see my father in his element, enthusiastically showing the film slides of his latest findings in Perugia and elsewhere in Umbria, and supplementing each with a detailed description and a further hypothesis. Professor Teyssier and Oliver listened intently, nodding occasionally. When the discussion was subsequently opened for audience questions, they raised their brows quizzically at any irrelevant or long-winding questions, sympathizing with my father who had to formulate sound responses to them.

The overall response to my father’s talk was positive, but a few of the scholars seemed to have missed the whole point of the lecture, and then there were those whose comments my father had been prepared for. At that point Oliver took part in the discussion as he had promised, counterpointing the most preposterous claims posed by members of the opposing school of thought.

I liked watching him in action. I hadn’t seen him like this in public before, only in private when they had discussed his book with my father, and I was impressed by his capability to debate in a concise and yet calm and polite manner.

”Your father chose him well,” Professor Teyssier whispered to me at the end and I couldn’t have agreed more.

After the final applause, my father shuffled back from the stage with his notes and slide boxes and sat next to us, beaming.

 

 

Since we were seated in the front row, I stayed also for the next lecture that followed, waiting until the coffee break in the day’s agenda to get an opportunity for a smooth exit from the auditorium. I made sure my father didn’t need my further help with anything, and then put on my jacket and picked up my book bag.

Oliver grabbed me by the arm, surprised, when I was about to leave.

”You’re going to go now?”

”Yes, I have tickets to another matinee concert today. I have” – I checked my watch – ”forty-five minutes to get there.”

”Oh, okay. So I’ll see you tonight at…what was the name of the fountain again?”

”Grille du…,” I started before realizing he was teasing me. I sighed. ”You’re impossible. I’ll see you at six.”

Oliver grinned and I had to practically pull my arm from his grip. Knowing I was going to be short on time, I hurried up the stairs on the aisle of the auditorium, two stairs at a time, and could have sworn felt Oliver’s eyes on me, watching me go.

 

 

I had no more luck at the Conservatory than the day before. The matinee was fine, but afterward, I again missed my chance to talk to the person I was there for. In the hallway, I took a glimpse at the clock on the wall. I still had plenty of time until our dinner and I decided to climb upstairs to the faculty floor to talk to his secretary again.

”I’m Elio Perlman, and I’ve missed Mr Beauvoir twice now, would it be possible to leave him a note, so that he’ll know that I’m looking for him?”

”But of course, Mr Perlman.”

She handed me a piece of paper and I scribbled my name on it, along with my subject matter and ended the note with a polite wish that I would be able to catch him after tomorrow’s concert. I gave the note back to the secretary and hoped that she would make sure it got delivered.

 

 

I hadn’t packed many clothes to take with me to Paris. Still, I managed to make a fuss by strewing them all on my bed at the hotel as I was trying to choose what to wear for dinner. I tried them all on, one after the other, but took them all also off, dissatisfied. Jeans? Black slacks? Suit jacket? Definitely too much. Sweater and an oxford shirt? Maybe. Green sweater? Red sweater? No, green.

Not that it would really matter what I wore, it was just a regular dinner. Besides, Oliver had already seen me in all kinds of clothing anyway.

And without any.

No, that was not the path of thought I should embark on. I decided to keep whatever I had on me at that point and, ironically, ended up wearing the same clothes I had worn the whole day. At least those were the nicest ones I had brought with me, since I had packed them with my father’s lecture in mind. And maybe this choice gave a suitably nonchalant impression. Oliver had already seen me that morning and having a different outfit on now might have signified that I treated this as some kind of a special occasion. Which this clearly wasn’t. This was just a dinner of convenience between old friends, both deserted in Paris without company for one evening.

When I had settled on what to wear, there was still the issue of my hair. I stared at it in front of the mirror, frustrated, because no matter what I tried, it refused to collaborate. My curls were now longer and more defined but just as unruly as they had been that summer when Oliver had spent nights running his fingers through them.

Not that that would be happening tonight, I reminded myself.

In the end, I decided to leave my hair, too, as it was, and headed for the Grille du Coq fountain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so grateful that you’re reading this! More this weekend.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio meets Oliver for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for continuing to read about these boys! I’m super happy to be able to share these chapters where they start to interact more; it took a little while to get the story to this point.

I checked my watch for the time when I got to the park. It was a few minutes before six, I had been early. I stepped over the low-hanging linked fence, erected to protect the greenery, and walked over to the fountain in the middle of a circular area of, now yellowed, grass. Since it was winter, there was no water in the basin either and I sat down on the edge of it. The stone was cold but I wasn’t wearing my gloves, so sitting on my hands wasn’t really any better of an option.

It was two minutes after six when I saw Oliver approaching from the other end of the park. When he was close enough, I leaped back to the walking path over the patches of wilted grass, dried up leaves crunching under my footsteps.

”Hey.”

”Hello.”

It turned out Oliver had made the dinner reservation at seven so we had an hour to kill first.

”Do you want to just walk around, or go and get an apéritif somewhere?” he suggested, looking around and nodding towards the boulevard next to the park. Maybe we’d find a suitable establishment there.

In my head, this evening had consisted of just a dinner, so this turn of events left me unprepared. ”Sure, maybe an aperitif? Or just walking? What would you want to do?”

Oliver pulled out a two franc coin.

”Call it, heads or tails?”

”Here, it’s _pile ou face_ ,” I said.

He tossed the coin in the air, catching it deftly on the back of his hand.

”Okay, _face,_ heads,” I chose.

He revealed that we had indeed gotten the side with the sowing Marianne’s face on it, so I got to choose. I thought for a moment and then chose aperitifs. I figured one might settle my nerves that had started to raise their head.

We wandered west through the park to get to the boulevard. I kicked pebbles on the walking path and some of them hit the metal lamp posts on the side of the path, making a clinking sound. The roofs of the buildings lining the park bathed in the glow of the setting sun and Oliver marveled at the sky that gleamed like molten amber.

When we passed Théâtre Marigny near the end of the park, I mentioned that the old theater building had been designed by the same man who had designed the Paris Opéra. And that in the 2nd _arrondissement_ nearer to the Opéra, there was actually, in turn, a Hotel Marigny but that it had nothing to do with the theater. In fact, it used to be a gay brothel frequented by, among others, Marcel Proust.

”Although his maid claimed till the day she died that he only went there to get material for his books.”

”Material?”

”Yeah, apparently he liked to watch the– Sorry, I know you’ve had a long day and I’m babbling. It’s just that I’ve been reading Proust during my free moments this week so it came to my mind.”

”There aren’t many things I would rather listen to at the end of a long day than you babbling”, Oliver smiled.

”Even about voyeristic writers?” I laughed, relieved.

”Especially about them.”

 

 

The traffic noise on the boulevard quieted down when we turned to the side streets and we ducked into the first hotel bar that seemed decent. Oliver ordered Old Fashioneds for us both and going down, the first sip both burned and calmed me.

”This was a good decision, well done, Elio.”

Oliver praised the fiery tangerine liquid; he said it helped wash away the long day at the conference, but maybe his nerves needed soothing like mine. I watched him take yet another gulp and estimated he would quickly be halfway through his drink.

”My mother uses the heads or tails method when she can’t decide between two options, but only to find out what she wants subconsciously,” I told him. “Whichever side you end up with, your first feeling on the result usually tells you instantly what you really wanted and that’s what you should do.”

”Hmm. I could’ve used that advice when my father died,” Oliver said dryly, placing his glass back on the table.

I couldn’t connect the dots. ”What do you mean?”

”Nothing, nevermind.”

 

 

He didn’t bring it up again until we had already walked to the dinner restaurant. Serendipitously, we had just caught _l’heure bleue,_ the blue hour _,_ that had painted every street corner along our journey into a dreamlike set piece from an elaborate Parisian panorama. We were browsing our menus when he mentioned, almost as a side note:

”After I got the call about my father, my first thought was relief. Not that I was happy about it. But I knew it meant that Helen and I couldn’t get married yet. Maybe I should have taken it as a stronger sign.”

I wasn’t sure if he would let me ask him more, but did so anyway.

”Sign of what?”

I had put my menu down but he was still hiding behind his, examining the list of main courses.

”We weren’t ready to get married then.” Then or ever, I wanted to ask, but he continued: ”We might have postponed it even further, if Helen’s mother, in turn, hadn’t fallen gravely ill the next summer. She desperately wanted to see us married, so we did it in December when she was still with us.”

I asked if he regretted having gone through with it because of, ultimately, an outside influence.

He shrugged. ”I guess it’s as good of a reason as any to go through with it, since we had planned to get married anyway. It would have been cruel to deny a woman her dying wish.”

I wondered what might have made him feel like he hadn’t been truly ready. If he had other regrets. If I had complicated things for him. Or maybe I was thinking too highly of myself. I fiddled with the edge of the linen napkin that was folded on the table and couldn’t look him in the eye but had to ask. ”Do you regret us?”

Oliver put his menu down now and his shoulders dropped. He placed his hand on the table and slid it next to mine.

”No, Elio. No.” Then, as if it was an arresting afterthought: ”Do you? Regret it.”

There had been times when I would have immediately uttered a bitter _yes_ , but now, years later, I knew it had been one of those things that mold you into who you were meant to be. And even during the darkest days, I could not have honestly said I regretted any moments spent with him, only the fact that there hadn’t been more of them.

I slid my hand closer to his on the table, until there was only a hair-width of space between my fingertips and his hand, his golden skin offset by the white tablecloth. ”No, I don’t.”

He was relieved. ”Good. I never wanted to…” His voice broke.

”Good evening, sirs, are you ready to order yet?” We were interrupted by a waiter with an impeccable timing. Oliver pulled his hand away and cleared his throat.

”Yes, we are.”

 

 

For the rest of the dinner we stayed at safer topics: my studies, my mother, my father’s lecture, Oliver’s job at the university. He told me about his students back in Boston, how they were much smarter than he had felt at their age. I told him he was underestimating himself and that they surely felt the same way about themselves. Besides, he was one of the most brilliant people I knew.

After, we decided to take the scenic route back to our hotels, to walk off our desserts if nothing else. We hadn’t gotten further than a few blocks from the restaurant when we heard faint music cascading to the street from somewhere. Oliver got curious and wanted to chase the sound, and I had to pick up my pace to keep up with him. The music got gradually louder until we were standing in front of a window sign that pointed to a jazz bar.

”Let’s go in,” Oliver suggested, looking so excited that I couldn’t have said no even if I had wanted to. Which I didn’t. I did not want to return him to his hotel yet; I was going to hold on to every moment I could get with him.

We descended the stairs to the underground level, but the band ended their set just as we reached the landing at the bottom. The waitress showing us to our table assured us the band was only taking a short break, and she brought over a bottle of red wine and two glasses without us having to ask.

Oliver started pouring the wine.

”I did know your father was going to be here,” he said without looking at me.

”What?” I looked around, not understanding what he was referring to.

He raised his voice; even without the band, it was noisy enough. ”When you asked me that on Monday. I did know he was going to be one of the speakers at the conference.”

”Oh.”

Oliver handed my wine glass to me, now smiling, and clinked his glass against mine. ”To jazz. And Paris.”

I took a sip. ”And did you think I was going to be here?”

”I don’t know. I hoped you’d be.”

I felt something warm starting to spread in my chest and I had to subtly check that I hadn’t accidentally spilled my wine on myself. My shirt was dry; the warmth was only on the inside.

 

 

As the evening progressed, Oliver started to look different, carefree, and I told him as much.

He smiled. ”I feel like myself again. I like it.”

”What do you normally feel like, then?” I asked.

”Like one of the versions of me. One for home, one for my students, one for my mother, and so on. Sometimes it’s just exhausting to keep them going.”

”Which version do I get?”

”You get just me. No versions.” He flipped the question on me. ”Do you always feel like you’re the same person?”

”No.” I reached for the wine to fill up our glasses again. ”But I think everyone exists in pieces. If you’re lucky, you have most of your pieces together most of the time, but still, certain pieces are there only with some people. Or when you’re alone, I guess.”

”I think the different versions of me all have different pieces.”

”No wonder if it’s exhausting, then.”

”You don’t say,” he raised his brow and gave me a half-smile.

I swallowed. ”I think I left one piece permanently with you. New people have sometimes managed to replace pieces that I’ve lost when I’ve grown apart from old friends. But no one has been able to replace your piece.” His expression changed to tender but pained, and I feared I was making him uncomfortable. ”Sorry, it’s too much. I’ll stop.”

”It’s not. Too much.”

”Okay.”

Oliver reached over to pick up his glass from the table and when he leaned back he casually draped his arm over the back of my chair. I sat perched on the edge of my seat and wondered if someone saw us and thought this was a date.

 

 

”Are you happy?”

I had wanted to ask Oliver this since Sunday but had been afraid that neither answer would satisfy me. The darker side of me would have demanded him to be miserable without me, but it would have equally broken my heart to know he was going through life unhappy.

”Is anyone?” He turned his gaze towards the stage where the band was taking their places and getting ready for their second set. “I mean, at times, yes.”

After a pause for thought he continued: “Is complete happiness even attainable? I think everyone is born with an inherent void and you just need to accept that it’s there. Trying to fill it gets you in all kinds of trouble.”

”Are you happy right now?” I was emboldened by the second helping of wine and the knowledge of the arm still on the back of my chair. I could graze it with my shoulder blades if I leaned back just so.

He smiled at me but the band hitting their first, loud notes saved him from answering further.

We listened to the band for a few more pieces before Oliver, as abruptly as he had gotten the idea to come in, suggested that we should leave.

 

 

Outside, the night had gotten colder and we hadn’t quite been prepared for it after all the mild weather. I had only worn my jacket; Oliver had at least been sensible enough to bring his thick wool scarf as well. A shiver went through me as a particularly strong gust of north wind blew by.

Oliver looked at me, worried. ”You look cold. Do you want my scarf?”

”No, I’m fine. Besides, then you would be freezing.”

”I can button up my collar, it’s basically the same thing.”

”No, I’m okay,” I insisted.

Near the Madeleine Church, we passed the building where Proust had spent his childhood and I pointed it out to Oliver.

”And by the way, I found a copy of a Balzac with Proust’s handwritten notes in the margins in a used bookstore yesterday. The store owner gave me a good price, he said it was because I was _trés mignon_ , but I think it was rather because the notes are most likely fake.”

Oliver smiled. ”I wouldn’t dismiss that first option so quickly. You _are_ pretty cute.”

I felt a blush starting to creep up my cheeks but turned my head the other way and shook it off.

”Anyway, I like to think the notes are authentic and beyond that, who cares, right? I have the book up in my room at the hotel if you want to see it.”

”It sounds intriguing. But I have to remind you that I haven’t turned into a graphologist during these four years,” he added.

”I just thought that maybe you’d be curious.”

He chuckled. ”Is this how you lure people to go home with you? Asking them to come and see your books?”

”I’m not trying to…” I sighed, embarrassed and slightly frustrated. ”Do you want to see it or not?”

”Of course I do, you know that. But not before you take this, your ears and nose are getting very red.”

Oliver took off his scarf and took his time wrapping it twice around my neck, knotting the ends in front with a concentrated look in his eyes. I thought about protesting again, but the warmth felt divine. Before letting go of me, he finally looked up at me and stroked the curve of the scarf on the side of my face.

”Okay, now we can go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in a couple of days :)
> 
> One of Oliver’s comments here paraphrases the following quote from the movie Take This Waltz (2011): _“Life has a gap in it. It just does. You don’t go crazy trying to fill it like some lunatic.”_ It resonated with me when I saw the movie and still does.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver goes to Elio’s hotel to see a book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ”She likes being good and I like being happy.” (Edith Wharton, _House of Mirth_ )

Oliver nudged my shoulder with his when we ascended the stairs to my hotel.

”Again, just so you remember, this is a completely platonic visit to your room,” he said and raised his eyebrows.

I sneered even though I knew he was just teasing me. ”Very funny.”

In the foyer, we brushed off the few stranded snowflakes that had landed on our shoulders outside, happy to be in from the cold. I got my key from the reception desk, and Oliver stopped briefly in front of the elevator but I gestured towards the staircase. My room was on the fourth floor and climbing the stairs seemed like a better idea than standing with him in the elevator. It would have meant listening to more of his jokes about me luring him into small, confined spaces with me.

 

 

Oliver seemed to approve of my room. He took off his coat, draped it over the back of the chair, and looked around the space.

All my tried-on, unworn clothes from the afternoon were still strewn on the bed. I gathered them haphazardly and hid the evidence of my earlier desperation in the closet while keeping one eye on Oliver, who was apparently doing something resembling a house check.

He eyed the apple cores I had left on the corner of the mahogany writing desk and looked at me pointedly. I shrugged with a sheepish smile. They had been my afternoon snack and the maid wouldn’t visit until the next morning to clean them up.

”You really are a lost cause without Mafalda.”

”Some things never change. I can make coffee or tea even without her, though,” I waved towards the small, hotel coffeemaker on the corner table. ”Do you want some?”

_Maybe I could have him stay longer that way._

Oliver glanced at the appliance. ”No, I’m good, but thanks.”

I noticed the latest issue of one of my Italian music magazines on the floor next to the bed and bent down to get it before Oliver would comment on it, too. However, as soon as I had picked it up, he was next to me and stopped me by taking hold of my wrist with one hand and a hold of the magazine with the other.

His hand was mostly warm but his fingertips were still cool from our walk, and they reached easily all the way around my slender wrist. Neither of us said anything, and the way he looked at me made me think that whether he had kept holding on to me or the magazine, letting the other go, I wouldn’t have been surprised either way.

In the end, he plied the magazine from my hand and let my wrist go.

I stood back as he leafed through a few pages from the back absent-mindedly, as if it hadn’t been what he had been wanting to look at after all. He placed the magazine on the bed and walked over to the window.

”We had to get the clichéd view of the Eiffel Tower because Helen insisted, but I think I like yours better,” he said looking down to the street.

I knew what he saw; the same view I had been looking at for a couple of evenings now. There was a string of small, busy bistros in full view on the other side of the street. They were closed and quiet during the day but came alive in the evening, and the warm glow cast through their windows illuminated the sidewalk in the dark. People were going in hand in hand, coming out in chattering groups. The silhouettes of the happy patrons populated the windows and hums of their voices carried to the street whenever someone opened a door. Oliver watched them deep in thought.

 

 

I went to use the tiny bathroom and when I came back, Oliver was still standing by the window. I pulled the heavy curtain aside to peek outside too, and Oliver shifted to make space for me in front of him.

He pointed at the quaint roof garden on top of the ornate building that housed the bistros. The roof was in its wintry state with its empty pots and frosted branches.

”One can just imagine what that rooftop will be like come spring and summer. Vines climbing the trellises, roses blooming, fragrant rosemary growing in the pots.”

He stood behind me close enough that the back of my hair brushed against his sweater. I leaned my head on his shoulder lightly. Oliver stilled. Leaning on him felt just as safe as I had remembered.

”Is it bad that I would gladly stay right here with you until then?” I asked.

Oliver draped his arm over my shoulders and let his fingertips brush up and down my arm. I turned my head slightly and my cheek was now resting against his chest.

”That would take quite a while, wouldn’t it.”

”It’s not like either of us has any places to be, right?” I said, wishing it was true.

I hadn’t noticed that he had stopped breathing until now that I felt him let out a breath he had been holding in. He let go of me but smiled.

”Are you ever planning to actually show me the book that we came here for?”

I twirled around and walked over to the desk, opened the top drawer and took out Balzac’s _Illusions perdues_. I placed the book on the desk, opening it to the page. We bent down shoulder to shoulder to get a closer look at the virtually illegible script in the margin. It seemed to overflow off the page and looked like it had been written in a hurry.

”I think it says _la prochaine fois, n’oublie pas_.”

”Well, I guess it could be Proust’s handwriting,” Oliver noted after inspection, standing back up. ”Maybe you weren’t swindled after all. Though, again, what do I know, I’m not an expert.”

Still leaning over the book, I wondered out loud what the comment, _next time, don’t forget_ , might have been for. Had Proust meant the next time he was going to write something himself, or was he trying to learn from his mistakes in general? It wasn’t even clear what the comment was referring to; the whole paragraph had been underlined.

”There are always things you can learn from and do better the second time. If given the chance,” Oliver said from behind me.

His hand came to rest on the small of my back. It didn’t move and even though my back was bent over the book in an uncomfortable, twisted position, I didn’t want to get up for fear that the hand would leave. I considered just staying there, with a twisted spine forever and ever, but eventually had to straighten myself up. As I had predicted, I lost the hand. But then it returned and stroked one of my unruly curls, taking hold of it and sliding it between the fingers until they ran out of hair at the end.

His eyes brimmed with nostalgia and I responded with a lop-sided half-smile before closing the book and putting it back into the drawer.

If we had wanted to keep things platonic we were failing beautifully.

When I turned back, he was so close that I had to tilt my face up to look him in the eye. He stood with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, almost as if he had decided to self-restrain himself. I placed my hand on his chest, over his heart.

Oliver looked at my hand and then me and smiled gently.

”We need to be good, Elio. I’m still married.”

”You like being good, I like being happy,” I said.

”You read Edith Wharton now?” he evaded referring to my quote, but didn’t move.

Both of us had known this was where we would end up from the moment he had accepted my invitation to come and see the book. Or perhaps since we met up at the fountain. Or most likely ever since he laid his hand on my shoulder when we left the conference get-together on our first evening. Everything we had done this week, every coffee, every conversation had been there only to delay the inevitable, which was that I would be pulled towards him by an invisible force and he would do nothing to stop it.

He didn’t back away now either when I reached up and pressed my lips lightly against his mouth: a featherlight caress, they were not doing anything more than that, just waiting for him to open his. When he inhaled and did so, I gently kissed his top lip and was surprised, or maybe I wasn’t, that I was allowed to lick it and then lick deeper into his mouth.

One of his hands had escaped from his pocket and appeared on the low curve of my waist. He pulled me flush against him and let his tongue fully meet mine. It was barely a kiss, more like two mouths and two tongues slowly tracing each other to get reacquainted. For a few blindingly blissful seconds I was finding my way back to him, until he put an abrupt end to it.

”It can’t be like this again,” he shook his head and cleared his throat. ”It just can’t. I have to…”

He pulled away from me and apologized.

”I’m so sorry Elio, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

He picked up his coat and was gone before my heart realized what had happened, and I only heard his hurried footsteps getting further and further away from me in the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming up very soon, we can’t leave them like this for long. I know it looks bad right now, but just trust me <3 (He said he would talk to Elio later.) 
> 
>  
> 
> And a special thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the thoughtful comments on Chapter 7. Hearing that it resonated with you means more than you know.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day, Elio tries to avoid Oliver.

_We were in Heaven. I had laid down close to him on the grass, the warm skins of our arms brushing against each other while we enjoyed the sun on our faces. We could hear the cicadas but not much else. His left foot touched my right foot, his sole stroking the top of mine. His foot then pushed my feet further apart, enough for his toes to find shelter on the inside of my ankle. I felt him shift next to me and kept my eyes closed when I could sense him sitting up and hovering over me. I felt his breath on my lips, but just as I was about to open my eyes and reach up to kiss him, he was gone. The dinner bell rang and in that same moment the sun went away and everything got cold._

I jolted awake to my alarm and was blessed with those first few seconds of hazy not-remembering, until I did.

I found Oliver’s scarf tangled up in my sheets. He had forgotten it here when he had left so quickly and I had taken it into bed with me, wrapping it around my body, my arms.

As I pulled the scarf free from underneath me, I felt a cold hand returning to squeeze my insides. Its grasp had slowly let go of me during the months after that phone call four years ago but it was now back, causing cold sweat to pool underneath my skin. It was the reminder of something that had been there just long enough to show you how it could complete you before it got taken away, leaving you emptier than you were when you started.

This time, it felt almost as if someone had pushed me overboard from a boat, and I knew what would be waiting for me down in the cold waters if I fell. But now, I thought, was the time to decide that I would not plunge into those depths. I would not sink. No, I would pull myself up while I was still holding on to the railing. Injured, but holding on.

 

 

I wanted to get my breakfast and be long gone by the time Oliver would get to the café, so I showered, got dressed, and was at the counter of Café Kaléidoscope drinking my cappuccino by eight. After I had gulped down the last drops, I rushed to the door and turned back only to wave the barista goodbye. I wasn’t looking where I was going and thus walked straight into a firm chest.

My cheek had hit Oliver’s sweater full on as he had just stepped into the café, his coat open like he had been in such a hurry that he hadn’t had time to tie it up.

Just like me, he had obviously wanted to avoid our usual time.

I stared at the floor. The door mat was burgundy, streaked with dirt from people’s shoes, and I didn’t have anything to say.

Oliver sighed, but it was gentle, not exasperated. ”Elio, about last night–”

I shook my head and looked up, determined not to let him get to me. Or worse, pity me.

”It was a mistake,” I said matter-of-factly.

”Mis–  You…you think it was a mistake?”

”We fell into an old pattern, but things have changed, we’ve changed, we shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

He seemed surprised that I was taking it so rationally.

”Anyway, I have to get to the Conservatory, have a good day at the conference.”

”Your matinee doesn’t start in five hours,” he said, confused.

”I also have plenty of other excuses I could use, would you like me to list them all?”

He looked at me, stricken, but moved to the side and let me pass.

 

 

I rushed through the Jardin des Tuileries and when I reached the Seine, I crossed over to the left bank and started walking without any specific destination in mind. This was not how Oliver and I were supposed to do Paris. I had of course imagined taking him here. We would have read to each other on the river banks and had picnics in the parks, made love in a room overlooking the streets of Montmartre.

Those thoughts had existed before that phone call, before he had someone else who would get to do all that with him. Probably already had. Selfishly I thought that Oliver would have still enjoyed my itinerary the most; that no one else could know him as well as I did. What he liked or couldn’t stand.

Maybe I had been wrong. It had been over four years, there had been plenty of time for someone else to get to know him. Maybe it was I who didn’t know him; I had only had him for six weeks anyway.

 

 

The only good thing that day was that I was finally able to catch Mr Beauvoir at the Conservatory. I was glad I had left my note to him the day before, because today’s performers were the best of the week so far, and they played some of my favorite pieces, so I was afterwards less alert than usual. This time Mr Beauvoir, however, stayed looking for me instead of heading out directly after the show was over.

I had explained in my note that my teacher in Milan, his old colleague, had advised me to come and talk to him. Our conversation wasn’t very long, but longer than I had expected. It also didn’t solve my initial question rather than created more things for me to consider. Nevertheless, my proposition had been well received and I felt that this week had not been in vain.

I had not told my father or anyone else this, but my main reason for having taken this trip was to come and see Mr Beauvoir about getting a spot at the Conservatory to continue my studies in Paris. I was graduating from my five-year degree in Milan in the spring. During my last school year, I had been taking composition classes on top of my normal course load, and had developed an interest in continuing that, just to see where it would go. I was not going to abandon playing piano or performing either, far from it, but just wanted a chance to see if my hobby could also be a part of something that I did professionally in the future.

What Mr Beauvoir had suggested instead, however, would take some consideration. It was something I had thought of occasionally myself, but hadn’t really deemed as a viable option for me. But maybe now, with his help…?

At least this provided a much needed distraction from anything related to Oliver.

 

 

My father commented on my absent-mindedness over dinner, but I still didn’t want to talk to him about my plans for my future. Not until I would have a clearer idea myself what I wanted to do.

When I had started my studies in the fall after Oliver left, my parents had wanted me to stay close to them in Milan, just to keep an eye on me. As many of my friends also still lived at home – the only ones not living with their parents were those who had gotten married – it had seemed natural, but now it felt like it was finally time for me to find my own path. I wasn’t sure how they would react, though, so I wanted to have a clear plan before I would present it to them.

 

 

After dinner, my father wanted to write down some notes from the closing lectures of the conference before sleep would erase the best and brightest of his ideas, so we both retreated to our rooms. We were also going to leave home the next morning right after breakfast, so it wouldn’t have been a bad idea to get a head start on packing, either.

 

 

I had only gotten as far as emptying the contents from the desk drawers back into my suitcase, when I came upon the Balzac novel and everything from the previous evening came rushing back.

Oliver’s scarf was also still in my room, the maid had folded it neatly on top of the bed. I sat down and brought it up to my nose to smell it.

Just wool, and a faint whiff of pine from his cologne.

I let out a hollow laugh and wondered if I’d end up gathering a collection of items of his clothing over the years. Would it always be like this? Would he always, for a moment, succumb to our connection that was unlike any other, and then go back to his well-structured, stable life?

I couldn’t blame only him, though. I had been a willing accomplice, ready to tempt him. If I wanted to put an end to this, I would have to stop myself from stepping into the quicksand with him at his every invitation.

 

 

After I was finished with packing, it was still too early to be going to bed really, but I hoped to escape the reality to the sweet numbness of sleep. I closed the curtains and sneered at the two pewter-gray pigeons perching on the railing of the balcony next to mine. Happily coupled, they seemed to be mocking me.

I already had my pajama bottoms on and was just pulling on my t-shirt, when there was a knock on the door.

”Elio, it’s me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for living this journey of theirs along with me.
> 
> One more update this Sunday, before the holidays. In it, truths will finally start to come to light.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Elio’s reluctance, Oliver wants to talk (finally).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being here and making it this far with me, whether you've been reading privately or also shared your thoughts in the comments <3

I let Oliver knock a second time before I got up and answered the door. What could he possibly want anymore? I wasn’t sure whether I was annoyed or frustrated or both.

”Yes?”

”Can I come in?” He both looked and sounded breathless, maybe he had taken the stairs again.

I shrugged. This couldn’t possibly be useful for either of us. ”For what?”

”Can we talk? I know you said what happened last night was a mistake, but I wanted to explain something. Even if you think it doesn’t matter anymore.”

I stepped away from the doorway and let him in. He took off his coat, but didn’t know whether to stand or sit until I pulled the desk chair for myself and gestured at him to sit on the bed.

”I called Helen this afternoon.”

”Yeah? How was she?” I tucked my fist under my chin and looked at the floor.

”What? She was…the same as always, I guess. Until I told her we needed to discuss the state of things. After that she was…well, she wasn’t entirely surprised, but maybe she had expected we would wait until I was back home to do that.”

”Do what?” I had trouble following him.

”Discuss the state of our marriage. It’s been…perfectly amicable but not really a marriage for a long time.”

Oliver explained how their lives had gradually started to drift apart fairly soon after they had gotten married.

As a young, dedicated teacher, he had been working long hours at the university advancing his own research, or grading papers at home. Helen had never been able to share in that part of him, and thus she had started socializing more and more with her friends. Which had led to him staying at his office late into the night, because she wasn’t at home either.

And when she had been, it hadn’t been much better. Conversation had become scarce, because they hadn’t had much to discuss. She didn’t care for his research or books and he didn’t have interest in the gossip of the local women’s groups.

Yet, they never specifically fought and Oliver felt that they had both first accepted that that was just how marriages end up as time goes on. Or life in general as you grow older.

Convenient.

Mundane.

It certainly had seemed that way looking at his own parents and their social circles, although he had been surprised that he and Helen had reached that point themselves so soon.

But then he had participated in a research retreat arranged at the house of his professor colleague, who had been seventy-five and still madly in love with his wife.

”It also made me think of your parents, Elio, how there was so much love and caring between them, much beyond anything Helen and I had ever had. There was just something missing for us and it didn’t turn up no matter how long we waited. We had been family friends and known each other since childhood but that alone isn’t enough for a marriage. For me, at least.”

Apparently their families had always expected them to end up as life partners, just like people had thought of me and Marzia. _Yes, we always knew_ , they would have said, had we ended up together.

I also thought about all the possibilities where Oliver could be going with this explanation and my imagination started running wild. I had to remind myself to hold onto my earlier decision and to refrain from jumping whenever he seemed to shine the faintest green light in the horizon.

”Have you thought about having kids?” I asked.

I had heard my parents accusing some of their friends of having children for less than admirable reasons. To fix a lost connection, to distract themselves from a life that had lost its luster. You definitely don’t have time to think about what’s missing from your life when you’re caring for a three-month old colicky baby, my mother had said.

Oliver commented dryly that often you need to have sex to have kids.

He sounded tired. It felt like he was laying everything on the table, so it didn’t feel out of bounds when I asked if he didn’t desire her at all anymore. Or she him? Or neither of them anyone?

No, definitely not ”not anyone” for him, he said. Very much a someone, but he had gotten used to taking care of that separately, on his own.

”Otherwise it wouldn’t have been fair to either of you,” he added glancing at me and then away.

His lashes created long wispy shadows on the tops of his cheeks.

I wasn’t sure if I had heard him correctly or interpreted his words the way he had meant them. I swallowed and cleared my throat, but it still came out shaky:

”Either of…us?”

He shrugged, powerless over his admission and the truth that it entailed, blue eyes full of regret for years lost, years spent in vain trying to forget.

I was overwhelmed by the realization that he had carried me with him all this time, just as I had never stopped wanting him.

I wondered if he had done it standing up, hidden in a locked bathroom at night, leaving me behind when he closed the door and returned to their marital bed for sleep.

Or like me, the sheets tightly wrapped around my torso so that when I closed my eyes and stroked myself, I could imagine it was his arms holding me instead of that faded fabric.

I shook myself out of my imagery. Here I was, so easily slipping again.

”Yeah, well, you know, I can’t do this anymore,” I said and walked to the far end of the room, hoping to minimize his effect on me in case my body would have tried to betray me. ”I can’t keep taking chances with you based on the tiniest hints, only to keep ending up alone. At train stations wearing your shirt, in hotel rooms wrapped up in your scarf. No, I’m just not going to do that anymore.”

The hope that had flashed in Oliver’s eyes a little while earlier was replaced by uneasiness again.

”What are you saying?”

I sighed and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my palms, raked the hair back from my temples. ”I’m saying that you’re not going to get any help from me. It can’t always be me, you’ll have to do the work, just once. Tell me you want me, even if there’s no chance of me wanting you in return.”

He swallowed. ”Do you?”

I watched his chest rise and fall, rise and fall.

”There’s a very good chance I don’t.”

We both knew I was lying, but I desperately wanted to make him understand.

”Or I could," I added, my voice almost breaking. "The point is you taking that first step, that leap of faith because of me. Telling me things that matter; sending me a note because you can’t stand not to be talking; bringing me to a hotel room because that would be the only place in this whole city where you might get to be as close to me as you need to be.”

He stared at me before he continued, now with eyes closed.

”Helen and I talked right after our second anniversary in December. She thought that maybe we just needed more time together, a change of scenery. Hence, an extra week in Paris,” he gestured vaguely around him. ”But last week was wintry gray, and not just the weather. We have lived in that gray for such a long time, and nothing changed here. We were still two miserable people just in a different city, too indifferent towards each other to even argue.”

He paused and his eyes fluttered open.

”And then you showed up. And this whole week, everything has been in Technicolor for me.”

He had mused about the gilded fames on top of the Pont Alexandre III bridge. The azure-blue butterflies at the café. Molten amber sunset last night.

My throat was dry.

”I didn’t leave last night because I didn’t want to stay. I left because I wanted to do it right this time. I called her today to tell her we need a divorce. I need a divorce. Regardless of what happens or doesn’t happen between you and me, Elio, I can’t go back to that gray anymore.”

I stood by the window as he sat on the bed, looking at his bare hands. I only now noticed that his wedding ring was gone.

”I’m sorry it has come to that for you two.”

”No, you’re not,” he smiled ruefully.

”I am. I never wanted you to be unhappy.” I had only wanted him to be happiest with me.

He looked up.

”I want you, Elio. My life is a mere shadow of a life without you. I’ve tried it.”

This felt like a trap, or maybe I would wake up soon.

”I…” I shook my head. My lips couldn’t form anything intelligible to say.

”Maybe you don’t want any of this,” Oliver continued, ”but I wanted you to know. And God, I know my life has depended on you being the brave one, but I will make all the first moves from now on if that’s what you want.”

My heart thudded in my throat. I hugged my arms tighter around my body and blinked to keep my eyes from tearing up.

”Come here,” Oliver pleaded, offering his hand to me, his eyes a glistening rainbow of all shades of blue. ”Please.”

I went.

I slid my hand in his, palm against palm, fingertips brushing wrist, until he clasped my hand and weaved his fingers between mine. I let him pull me to his lap until I was sat straddling him, but I still refused to do anything beyond that.

He placed his hands on the sides of my calves both to hold onto me but also to test whether I would allow him to touch me.

When he became convinced that I wouldn’t stop him, he smoothed his hands up the backs of my legs and my thighs, over my buttocks and up my back. Their warmth pressed against me as if he was trying to wash over my entire surface, and thereby soothe the bitter ache that radiated from me as a remnant of all the times he had left instead of staying.

When he reached the nape of my neck, his fingers pushed deep into my hair the way he knew I liked it. I leaned the back of my head into his grip and followed his eyes as they traveled all over my face and body – it was as if he had finally given himself the permission to look.

His gaze eventually stopped moving but only to hold mine. To hell with my noble decisions, I thought, I would sell my soul to have him look at me like this.

His hands left my hair and came around to cradle my face.

My breathing became shallow and unsteady and stopped altogether when his thumb stroked down from the side of my jaw, along my throat. He circled that one spot on my neck, near the start of my collarbone, and almost made me sob at the thought that he remembered it so effortlessly.

As his warm lips pressed against it, the last pieces of my resistance melted, and when his low voice hummed _Oliver_ against my skin, I threw my arms around his neck and myself against his chest.

”Elio, Elio, Elio,” I whispered into his ear, choked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They look like they might be fine, so let’s leave them here in each other’s arms for a little while, shall we? <3
> 
> Happy Holidays to everyone who’s celebrating! I know this time of year can also be difficult for people, so hang in there, love to you all, and I’ll see you here with the next update on Wednesday. (The next chapter will pick up right where we left off.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For four years, they had relied only on their memories for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kisses, skin, sweat.

We just held each other tightly for a long time, lips buried deep in each other’s necks, noses breathing each other in, until Oliver asked quietly:

”Can I kiss you?”

The room was dark, illuminated only by two table lamps with mustard-colored shades that made them cast a warm glow. Someone on the upper floor had moved their furniture around earlier; the paper thin walls of the Parisian hotels hid nothing. Another hotel guest had ran a bath as we had heard the draining water flushing through the pipes, but all sounds had now quieted down.

”Always,” I replied, still sitting on his lap, and pushed myself up to face him. His thumb slowly caressed my bottom lip before he replaced the thumb with his lips and kissed me. Or I kissed him; it was hard to tell because our mouths sank into each other.

His tongue was slick and warm against mine and I felt seventeen again, but also thirty, fifteen, fifty-two. Time seemed irrelevant as this was where I belonged for all eternity.

When I was out of breath, Oliver continued to place little kisses in the corner of my mouth and then hungrier ones down my throat, each overlapping the previous one, making sure no patch of skin on his path went uncherished. I threaded my fingers in his hair, playing with it, caressing it back from his temples. His finger stretched the collar of my t-shirt to find more skin to kiss underneath.

”You can take it off,” I mumbled into his hair. It meant, _you can do whatever you want to me, I’m yours and always have been, didn’t you know that._

I lifted my arms up and waited for him to pull off the shirt. I wanted to be bare for him, show that I was still me, the same, his, underneath everything. I curled back up against him after my shirt had been tossed on the floor, the wool of his sweater now lightly scratchy against my cheek and bare chest. I ran my hand along the broad of his shoulder. Lips kissed my temple and warm hands rubbed my back.

”I’ve missed you so much,” Oliver said softly.

I looked up and my fingers started memorizing his face again, tracing what had changed. Not much. An added laugh line here, a little more defined jaw there. I smoothed his unruly eyebrow, his forehead, his hair. This face that was so dear to me was here, despite my traitorous efforts to try and forget it for all time.

I nuzzled my nose behind his ear and shifted in his lap. We were barely doing anything; yet the mere proximity of him was already making me hard. I was only wearing my pajama pants and I knew that he could feel the effect he had on me against his stomach through the thin fabric.

I ran the tip of my nose along the skin on his hairline.

”Your hair smells different. Citrusy, but not the same.”

”I had to change it, my shampoo. I had it for the summer, but back home it felt all wrong.”

”Reminded you of too many things?” I asked. Maybe remembering had hurt him too. I grazed my teeth at his earlobe.

His breath hitched.

”Olfactory memory is highly resistant to forgetting.”

His hand started to slide lower and lower over the small of my back, fingertips slipping further and further until they were under the waistband of my pajama pants. When it became clear what he had in mind, I climbed off of him. I stood between his knees, naked from the waist up, hands resting on his shoulders and fingers curling in on themselves against the sides of his neck. He placed kisses on the plane of my stomach and they got wetter the lower he got. When he looked up, I nodded to give him the permission he was seeking.

Biting on my lower lip I watched as he hooked his fingers in the waistband of my pants and slid them all the way down, freeing my cock and freeing me of any decisions to hold back.

”Take me to bed, Oliver,” I whispered in a strained voice. It was nonsensical as he was already sitting on the bed, but he knew what I meant.

When he pulled off the covers from the bed, my magazines that had been on it slid on the floor but neither of us cared about them this time. I climbed up to lay on the white hotel sheets and ran my hand through my hair in anticipation as I watched him getting undressed. I had always loved being naked before he was.

Navy blue sweater grabbed from the hem with fingers shaky from eagerness, pulled off over his head. Underneath a thin white t-shirt through which his chest looked more defined than I had remembered. Maybe he had spent more time at the gym than at home.

When he started unbuckling his belt, I suddenly got up.

”No, wait. Let me?”

He had been committed to getting his clothing off as quickly as he could, but now he relaxed, and his features melted into a smile. He let his hands drop to his sides as he waited for me to crawl to him on the bed and settle on the edge of it, perched on my knees.

I slid my hands under the hem of his t-shirt, aching to feel his skin with my palms. The shirt rode up from his waist and scrunched up around my wrists when I pushed my palms all the way up to his chest. His chest, the one I had licked, kissed, slept against. Cried against. I started to caress it, but then decided I didn’t want to wait anymore to see bare skin and I slid my hands back to his waist.

I sat back and waited impatiently as he took his t-shirt off, looking up at him and his eyes never leaving mine, save for the split second when he yanked the shirt over his head. I rose up on my knees again and buried my face on his sternum, kissing it all over like I had found a long-lost friend.

My forehead still leaning against his chest, I looked down and pushed my hand between us to work on his belt. Metal prong released, the end of the leather strap pulled all the way through the buckle. The button of his pants slipped through the opening, the zipper pull smooth between my thumb and forefinger. Open-mouthed kisses pressed on the new slivers of skin exposed by my maneuvers.

When I palmed the outline of his cock through his boxer shorts, he grunted through his teeth and when I slid my hand inside, I found him just as hard, if not harder than I was by now. Relishing the sound he made when I stroked him again, I retreated back to my side of the bed.

”You can take them off now.”

He pushed his pants all the way down, then his boxers, kicked them away from his ankles along with his shoes and socks and got on the bed. Finally naked, he laid down next to me on his side, and just looked at me, my hair, my face, my body, my limbs.

I started to squirm under his gaze, self-conscious, and tried to pull the sheets over us but he stopped me.

”Let me look at you, please,” he said tenderly and placed his hand lightly on my chest. ”I’ve had to rely only on my memory for so long.”

He ran his fingertips along each of my ribs, the barely-a-curve of my waist, dipped into my navel, played with the wispy hair below it, caressed the flat of my stomach with his palm, fingers splayed. I held my breath but instead of continuing further down where I really, really would have wanted him to, he took hold of my hand. He kissed my palm, then flattened his own against it and pinned my hand into the pillows, over my head.

I kept it there when he started caressing my wrist, the delicate translucent skin on the underside of my forearm, the crease of my elbow, my bicep, my armpit, eliciting delicious goosebumps as he went. When he reached my chest, his thumb started grazing over my left nipple and then he bent down to let his lips engulf my right nub.

The sensation shot through me in waves and yet, I was having trouble deciding whether to concentrate on that, or on his foot that had simultaneously found its place on top of mine. His toes curled against my ankle and his sole smoothed the top of my foot until he swung his leg between mine and lifted himself up to lean over me.

He looked like he wanted to make reacquaintance with every square inch of my body, worshiping with his eyes, his fingers and as I was certain would later follow, with his lips. Our cocks were pressed between our bodies, already leaking, but it was as if we had made a silent agreement to leave them alone for now, because otherwise this would be all over for us both much too soon.

Still, I couldn’t help but cant my hips up a little as I threaded my fingers in the now-mussed up hair on the back of his head, and experimented with a light pull. His breath hitched like it used to, and I took a bigger handful in my grip, wanting to hear it again.

”And what did you do with those memories?” I asked, referring to his earlier comment.

”You know very well what I did.”

”Tell me,” I urged him, tightening my grip on his hair.

”I imagined kissing all your birthmarks, all your freckles. I could see every single one if I closed my eyes.”

I yearned to tell him I had probably gotten new ones since then, but wanted for him to find them on his own.

His face was only inches above mine. ”Kiss me, please,” I pleaded.

He obeyed and brushed his lightly parted lips over mine, softly gliding to the corner of my mouth, where the tip of his tongue flicked out, and my mouth fell open at its first touch. His lips pressed on my mouth in a greedy, demanding kiss and his tongue grazed mine until they both tasted like Oliver – that hadn’t changed.

When he needed to pause to catch his breath, he leaned his forehead on my temple, nose resting on my cheek.

”I didn’t think I would ever get to kiss you like this again.” His voice broke at the end.

_Neither did I, Oliver, but never have I been so glad to be so wrong._ Tugging on his hair, I turned his head so that my lips could find his again. I kissed him until I was breathless.

 

 

”How have I been able to live without this for four years when these past twenty-four hours were torture?” Oliver wondered, rolling off of me, gasping for more air as he had given all of his to me.

I was starting to feel that what we were doing now, was the real torture – sweet torture but still torture – if we didn’t soon pay attention to what were by now dripping between us. When I leaned over him and told him as much, the black of his irises took over instantaneously. I knew his eyes like this almost as well as when they were all blue.

”Oh really? You want me to do something about that?” he grunted.

I supported myself on his chest and pulled on his bottom lip with my thumb to see the slick pink underneath.

I gave him my two fingers and he sucked them into his mouth. The combination of the look in his eyes, the wetness around my fingers, and the obscene sounds that cascaded from his lips shot right through me. The way they made my cock twitch did not go unnoticed by Oliver and he let out a little laugh before rolling us over, pushing me back to the bed and inching his hand down between us. Writhing impatiently, I couldn’t wait for him to touch me. How many times had I dreamed of this in my bed, alone in the dark?

His hand curled around my length and his first slow stroke, combined with the feeling of his own heavy cock brushing against me, already made me tremble and arch my back. He kissed and bit on my neck gently and then kissed a straight path down my body, as any detours would have taken precious time and he didn’t want to wait any longer.

His lips wrapped around the tip of my cock and I had to chase my breath; the wet heat of Oliver’s mouth was exactly as I had dreamed up on my lonely nights. When his tongue went straight to lick across the spot under the head I gasped and cursed so loudly it must have carried to the neighboring rooms.

Oliver was pleased, of course. The moans his eager mouth and slick tongue were able to elicit from me delighted him, and I hated to deny him that pleasure even for a second. Yet, I could tell by the way my pulse was throbbing that I wouldn’t last long like this.

I reached down and pulled his face close to mine with both hands.

It might have been the four years spent in longing or simply him looking at me the way he did, but by then I couldn’t think of anything else anymore except:

”Fuck me, Oliver.”

I wanted him to devour me, to make me his again like I always had been. To fill me, to make me forget about everything that wasn’t about his body, his skin, or any part of his grinding against me.

He caressed my damp forehead, gave me an open-mouthed kiss as a promise and then retreated to the bathroom.

I turned over on the bed to lie on my stomach and, making every effort not to rub myself against the sheets, listened to him rummage through the travel-sized amenities that I now remembered were on the counter in the bathroom. When he returned, I could hear him sigh.

”Oh, Elio.”

I felt the bed move when he crawled onto it. He kissed my ankles and ran his hands along the backs of my legs as he spread them to make space for himself between them. I clutched the sheets when I felt him press his lips at the bottom of my spine and his teeth gently grazing the swell of my buttocks. Then his breath was suddenly on my neck and his voice in my ear.

”Elio, turn around.” Him hovering above me, I rolled over to find myself looking at him in the eye. “Every side of you is beautiful, but I want to see your face in that moment when every cell of mine belongs to you.”

 

 

And he did. He was still inside me when I gasped and stuttered that I couldn’t hold back anymore; not with the way his hand was wrapped around my length; not with the way he was moving deep in me. The first thrusts had been painful but he had taken it slower than slow, kissing me the whole time, helping me relax, and little by little my body had welcomed him home.

His tongue was deep in the hollow of my throat when he encouraged me to let go and soon after, when the waves of euphoria were still washing over me, he followed himself.

He collapsed on top of me, barely remembering to brace himself on his forearms, but I would have gladly had his entire weight crush me into oblivion. His sweat had mixed with mine and I wanted to lick the mixture off his skin.

When I looked up, his lashes had clumped up from the sweat and it made his eyes look like stars.

”You’re so beautiful, Oliver,” I whispered when I regained my ability to speak. His cheeks flushed even redder than they already were and he looked impossibly young when he lowered himself on the bed next to me and caressed my cheek with his thumb.

”Look who’s talking.”

Before we drifted off to slumber, I asked him to give me a goodnight kiss and told him he should reimburse me for all those nights I had been forced to go to sleep without him. I clung to him greedily and he promised to spend his lifetime paying off that debt.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s still fluff in store for them and plans to make for two more chapters. Next one coming up this weekend.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio asks what’s next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and all your comments, as always <3
> 
> This is the penultimate chapter; there’s still an epilogue to come.

When Oliver opened his eyes, I had been sitting on the window sill for a while, wrapped in a blanket and hugging my knees, watching the blue-toned light of dawn pour into the room. I watched him wake up and without a good morning, I started, not wanting to miss out on it this time:

”I know we never said it, but–”

”I did. I still do,” he said without hesitation.

I tilted my head, leaning the cool skin of my cheek against my arm that had stayed warm inside the blanket. I had imagined this moment as a grand gesture or a big declaration, and yet, in the end, this was how simple it was.

”Come back to bed.”

Oliver lifted the covers and I slipped into the warmth with him and curled against his side.

”I did, too. I always will,” I said as I pressed my face against his chest.

 

 

”Where do we go from here?”

”I’m flying to Boston, you’ll be taking the train to Milan.”

”You know that’s not what I meant.”

He kissed me apologetically. ”That was an attempt at levity, not evasion.”

”I graduate after this semester, and that leaves me free to think about my next move.”

I finally told someone why I had come to Paris in the first place and what I had discussed with Mr Beauvoir at the Conservatory. He had offered to help me get a spot in studying composition in the Paris Conservatory like I had asked, but unexpectedly, he had strongly advised that Juilliard would, in fact, be a better fit for me, if I was willing to consider it. He had taught at Juilliard earlier, still knew several of the teachers of the composition track there, and could help me choose scores that I could submit and generally prepare me for the auditions.

”I wonder if that was why my teacher sent me here to talk to Mr Beauvoir. That I would need an outsider’s opinion to be convinced I am good enough to apply to Juilliard. Anyway, New York would be much closer to Boston than Milan or Paris, if you’d like to visit your boyfriend.” I got hesitant. Maybe I had gone too far, we hadn’t really discussed anything seriously yet. ”Or am I getting ahead of myself?”

Oliver had listened to me intently and the smile on his face had only gotten wider the further I had gotten in my confession.

”No, I like the sound of that.” He smiled into the kiss that I pressed on his lips.

Then he got serious again.

”When I go home, I need to have a proper talk with Helen. I owe it to her, to resolve everything, even though she already knows what I want. I think she wants to hold on more than I do, but I just can’t do that anymore.” He cupped my cheek with an earnest look in his eyes. ”But I want to give you and me a clean start, so I was thinking that maybe we could give each other some time? To work everything out. No letters, no phone calls, until the table is clear.”

”How would I know when that happened? Or where would I see you again? You have your job and I have school.”

He thought for a moment.

”We could meet at another one of these things. The next conference is in Vienna in April. Is your father going?”

”I think so,” I said.

”And you?” he asked.

”Haven’t thought about it yet.”

”Suppose you did think about it,” Oliver suggested.

”Yeah?” I played with the golden hair on his chest.

”Suppose you decided to join him.”

I looked up. ”Suppose I did. What would happen then?”

He traced my jaw with his index finger. ”I could steal a kiss from you among the roses in the Volksgarten. We could make plans. We could see spring together.”

I had never experienced spring with Oliver. Only the highest peak of summer that was burning hot and overflowing, but never spring, never the season when the real roots are grown. Never the season when things that you thought had been buried deep in dirt and had all but turned into dust, miraculously come to light again, green as ever and suddenly everything starts anew.

”There would be those first butterflies of the spring, with their citron wings. Do you have those in Italy?”

”I have butterflies whenever I’m with you,” I said and leaned my face into his palm.

”Someone is overly romantic today,” Oliver teased me, but I could tell he was pleased and finally his chuckle sounded like my Oliver again.

”I’m not overly romantic, I’m just the right amount,” I corrected him. ”You’re the one who wants to kiss me in rose gardens. Which, for the record, I am not opposed to at all.”

”Okay, then.” He kissed me on the tip of my nose, amused. ”But I want you, too, to have a chance to think before we rush into anything. Take your time, while I work on clearing things up at my end. I owe it to Helen, but I also owe it to you to give you time to choose what you want. I wouldn’t want you to make decisions purely based on this one surprise encounter.”

”As long as it’s on offer, I could never choose a life where I wasn’t with you,” I said.

If I could have chosen only one look of his to carry with me forever, it would have been the one in his eyes right then. The regret of years past had turned into wisdom and resilience, and they were laced with such adoration that he could only express it by folding me deep into his embrace.

”You might think differently when you return home to your friends,” he still insisted, his words muffled by my hair.

 

 

We walked to breakfast together and found my father at Café Kaléidoscope already halfway through his, a smattering of brioche crumbs a telltale sign of his morning indulgences. I kissed my father on the cheek and sat down next to him. He automatically handed Oliver the sections of the morning paper that he had already read, as if it had been their morning routine for years.

Oliver started reading the paper while my father and I discussed our family’s weekend plans. He had already called home from the hotel that morning and informed my mother of the arrival time of our evening train. She had promised to send Anchise to pick us up at the railway station. Mafalda had planned a dinner for the homecoming of us weary travelers so there would be a feast waiting for us when we got home.

Oliver appeared to be buried in his reading, like nothing existed outside him and the paper. Yet, every time he reached for another sip of his coffee, his hand fleetingly caressed my little finger that was resting on the table next to his coffee cup. My father pretended not to notice, but I saw his eyes growing softer.

 

 

When we said our goodbyes, my father hugged Oliver outside the café and said he would go ahead and already check us out of the hotel. I promised to follow him soon to take care of our bags.

Standing on the sidewalk, Oliver and I looked at each other.

”So. Vienna,” he said.

”Yes.”

He pulled me to his embrace and I linked my arms all the way around his waist. The air was so cold that I could see my breath, but the lapel of his coat was warm against my cheek.

”But only if you want,” he reminded me. ”Please think thoroughly before you decide anything. Because if you do come, I will never let you go again.”

No threat had ever sounded better to me.

 

 

On the train, views of the French countryside were dashing by and my father kept nodding off, but my thoughts kept me awake. Without Oliver there next to me, I started, against my better judgment, to doubt everything that had happened.

What if Oliver was the one that needed to be sure of his decision; that him insisting I take my time was him really reminding me that he himself, too, needed to be sure? Because of our agreement, there would be no letters, no phone calls, and I would never know if he had gotten back together with his wife.

For all I knew, they could be planning to start a family by tomorrow – after all, I had practically given him the idea. It could be just as likely that he would be taking _her_ to Vienna, kissing _her_ in the rose garden, _her_ sweat mixing up with his at night. And I would never know. I would be at home, hearing from my father afterwards what a lovely dinner he had had with his colleague, and guess who was also there, Oliver and his wife. _They looked really good, Vienna clearly suited them._

The train had already crossed the border from France to Italy, before the lack of sleep from the night before finally caught up with me. I fell asleep but it was restless.

 

 

That was three weeks ago and I haven’t heard from Oliver since. I’m now reading in my room in Milan, it’s late on a Sunday afternoon. The phone rings and the house echoes with my father’s yell that he’s going to get it.

I only hear his side of the conversation.

” _Hello?_ ”

” _Oliver, how great to hear from you!_ ”

” _We are doing fine, just deciding whether to go out for dinner or stay in_.”

A longer silence.

” _Oh, definitely, the lectures there could be very useful for the next installment of your book series_.”

” _Yes, I’m going_.”

” _We’ve talked about it but I’m not sure if he’s decided yet. Should I ask him?_ ”

I hear the phone receiver being put down on the table and then the floorboards creaking in the hallway as my father approaches my room. My door is open, but he stops at the threshold.

”Elio, it’s Oliver on the phone. He wanted to know if you’re coming with me to the next conference in Vienna?”

My head is already spinning, but my father doesn’t know that. I haven’t told him anything specific after Paris and he hasn’t asked. He had probably figured out enough and we would have time to talk if or when there would be something more to talk about.

My heart swells and it takes everything in me to limit my body language to a regular shrug and a nod. ”Yes, tell him I want to come.”

”Okay, very good,” my father says and walks away to resume the phone call.

I put my book down. Flurries of snowflakes dance and twirl in the air outside my window before they land on the gray sidewalk. Now the damp chill of winter still seeps through the cracks in the window panes and makes me shiver, but soon it will be spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue, set in April 1988, will be up in a few days.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A morning in a hotel room in Vienna, April 1988.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t thank you enough for reading, leaving kudos or lovely comments, sending messages, and generally supporting this story across platforms. I’ve said this before, but it continues to be true: I have loved writing this but being able to share it and hear that others have enjoyed it: priceless.

**Vienna, Austria**

**April 1988**

 

“What are you doing? Come back to bed.”

Oliver rummages through the contents of his suitcase spread on the floor, naked, and I only see an occasional arm or the back of his head when I peek at his direction from the bed. I am naked too, and it is way too chilly in our room for me to want to get out from under the covers.

Hotel rooms in Vienna apparently do not have proper heating, or maybe they already consider April to be summertime and leave the patrons to fend for themselves. Thus far the hotel policy had only worked in my favor, though, as Oliver had done his best keeping me warm through the night.

“I brought you something, but I can’t find… Ah, here it is.” He gets up victoriously, holding a tiny drawstring pouch. His large hand makes the pouch look doll-sized.

He climbs back on the bed and slips under the covers to slide up next to me. The cool air has already gotten to his skin and I drape myself clumsily over his chest to warm him back up again. Leaning back against the headboard, he spreads his arms to make space for me and chuckles. “Are you not interested in your gift at all?”

“No matter what you bring me, I’m always going to be more interested in this,” I mumble and bite on his collarbone, hands rubbing his sides that are still cool to the touch.

His hand comes to rest in my curls on the back of my head and my hands start inching downwards, warming him up lower and lower.

Soon we both forget his gift, when my hand ends up between his legs and finds him already hard, waiting.

He likes sucking me off, but I enjoy almost as much letting my fingers and palm do the job. Only because it means I can watch his face up close, see his eyes flutter and breathing get heavier, and finally kiss him at the exact right moment.

 

 

Afterwards, I lay back down next to him but something feels pointy under my back. I reach behind me, and the little drawstring pouch makes another appearance.

“Do you not want to open it by now already?” Oliver asks, still a little breathless in his post-orgasmic stupor.

I pull on the strings and find a key inside.

“What is this? A key to your heart?” I smile.

It would be more like me to do something like that, even though Oliver has his sentimental and romantic side, too.

“You have that already.” He turns his head to give me a sloppy kiss. “This one is to my new apartment. Helen will stay in our old house until we find a buyer for it. I’m renting a one-bedroom starting, well, yesterday. I just got the keys before I left.”

Oliver notices my confusion.

“Maybe you would like to come to Boston for the summer,” he explains. ”I need to teach a couple of summer classes but we could go down to Cape Cod when the classes are out. Our family has a place there but my mother never uses it anymore.”

 

 

Oliver had arrived in Vienna yesterday evening to attend another Classics conference as he and my father had planned. We had met him at the stop where the airport train left off, and for the first time, he had hugged me first before greeting my father.

My father had insisted we take Oliver to dinner.

“It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, even the restaurant at the hotel will do. But your jet lag will only get worse if you go to bed too early.”

Oliver and I had exchanged a look between us at that point, wondering how long it would take until we would get to be alone, but we had agreed to my father’s plan.

We wouldn’t have needed to worry. My father had scarfed down his dinner quickly and refused dessert, blaming it on wanting to watch his figure.

We all had walked upstairs together, and I had bid my father goodnight at his floor, but continued with Oliver to his room.

When finally there, we had just smiled at each other, Oliver’s smile wider than I had ever seen on him. He had pulled me to his chest and wrapped his hands all the way around my back.

I had looked up at him and nudged the tip of his nose with mine.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

In Paris, he had technically been someone else’s, but here I considered him completely mine and half of me had wanted to devour him while the other half wanted to savor every moment.

Oliver had made the decision for me.

“This will be the first kiss of the rest of our lives. Let me take my time.”

He had taken his time, like on that midnight years earlier. My head similarly falling back, eyes closing and mouth opening at the first touch of the tip of his finger along my jaw. It had traced my jawline and even with my eyes closed, I knew he was looking at my face, relishing every tiny change in my expression that he was able to elicit. His finger grazed my bottom lip and if he was expecting my tongue to flick out to curl around it, he was not disappointed.

“Oliver,” I finally whined when his lips were caressing my eyelid and temple, and it worked. He silenced me with a kiss that quickly deepened into passionate and possessive, his warm tongue pushing its way into my mouth.

Over the night that followed, his tongue went everywhere else, too, as did mine, both swirling on each other’s skin until we were both spent with too much happiness, and fell asleep.

 

 

And now, in the morning, I am sitting on the bed, holding a key to his new apartment in Boston.

“So will you come? Let me show you around for a change?”

“Will you take me to your Monet’s berm? To your To-die-for?”

“I will,” he smiles.

I confess that I haven’t been to either of mine in years. He starts to ask why, but stops himself mid-question realizing the answer himself. Sadness flashes in his eyes and he caresses my cheek and kisses me instead.

I assure him that now I think I can, again. And will, soon, when my parents go to set up the villa for their summer.

Their summer. Mine would be with Oliver, in Boston.

“But I can’t stay for more than the summer, remember? I have extra tutoring with my composition teacher in the fall, to prepare for the Juilliard audition. Even though the live auditions – if I get that far – aren’t until next spring, I still need to have all my scores ready for submission by December.”

“Yes, about that,” Oliver looks sheepish.

“What?”

“Well, I talked to the dean, and tried to find out if our department has any exchange programs for teachers. There’s one I could apply for, but I don’t know what you think.”

“Where would that be?”

Oliver bites his lip. “Milan. It would be for the fall semester.”

He narrows his eyes, holds his breath, waits for my reaction.

We had preliminarily only discussed the plans for me: apply to Juilliard, hope to get in, move to New York. We would become loyal Amtrak customers and visit back and forth on the weekends for the two years that my degree would take. Then see where our careers would take us, together.

I process this new development. This means that after I would graduate in June, I could go to Boston and spend the entire summer with Oliver, then bring him back to Milan with me for the rest of the year.

“What do you think, Elio?”

“What do I think? What do I _think_?” I push him on the shoulder, hard.

I had spent more than one sleepless night thinking how we were actually going to do this, being apart. If our communication would wane again, if he would eventually lose interest.

“I think you should’ve told me about all of this before I had reluctantly prepared myself to spend a year only talking on the phone with you!”

I push him again and surge to grab his arms and he lets me climb on top of him successfully, but then overpowers me easily and wrestles me back to the bed. We both laugh, panting.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just didn’t want you to get your hopes up until I had more details.”

I nestle myself against his side and lay my head on his chest. “I know. And I love the plan.” Another thought comes to me and I chuckle. “Mafalda’s going to love it too. You’re her favorite to cook for, she’ll boil so many eggs for breakfast you’ll drown in them.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can come over for dinner every now and then, but the teachers will have apartments to live in for the duration of the exchange. Your family won’t have to put me up.”

I laugh. “Do you think there’s any chance my parents will let you stay elsewhere when we have extra rooms in our house?”

“It would be great, obviously, but I couldn’t possibly.”

“They will insist. Besides, technically, you wouldn’t even need your own room.” I can feel my cheeks color with excitement thinking about being able to bring him home as my boyfriend.

Oliver sinks his fingers into my curls and pushes one behind my ear with his thumb. “They wouldn’t make me take over your room again?”

“They might, since it’s bigger than our guest rooms. But this time–” I reach up to kiss him. “This time, I’m staying there with you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million times thank you for having been here for this journey <3 
> 
> I hope you like where this story took them and where we leave them.
> 
> (And because people have asked: yes, I would love to write more stories in the future. Next, I’m finalizing my draft of Elio and Oliver meeting in a modern day Pride and Prejudice AU. I hope to start posting chapters from it within a week or so, and would of course love to see you there, if that sounds like something that might be your thing :))

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I would love to hear what you thought. I always respond to comments, and you can also find me on tumblr at [angel-in-new-york-city](http://angel-in-new-york-city.tumblr.com/)


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